


A Gift of Wings

by DeadlyBagel



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Dragon Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Drama, Gen, How Do I Tag, I'm just writing what I want to read, Identity Issues, Night Furies (How to Train Your Dragon), OCs at a minimum, baby night furies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2020-01-04 09:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 221,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18341306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadlyBagel/pseuds/DeadlyBagel
Summary: A pair of Night Furies hatch under mysterious circumstances into a big, wild world, unknowingly embarking on a perilous and fateful path fraught with malicious and greedy humans. Changing the world was never going to be easy, but that's what it means to become a hero the hard way.





	1. Awareness

Awareness...

**_Thump-thump_ ** _thump-thump_

Sensation…

**_Thump-thump_ ** _thump-thump_

Warmth…

**_Thump-thump_ ** _thump-thump_

Movement? A steady swaying. Slight occasional pressure. _Sleep_.

More pressure, closer, firmer, cramped. A brief wriggle – better, comfort.

**_Thump-thump_** _thump-thump_ _thump-thump_

Awake again. Chest aching.

_Thump-thump thump-thump_

Need… something. Anything. Stop the burning.

_Thump-thump thump-thump_

Movement, pressure – push back. No, not back. Out. Push out.

A sudden release – cold! An involuntary breath, the burning fades. More breaths. Warmth from within fighting off the cold. An unfamiliar sense – dim light assaulting new eyes as they blearily force themselves open and closed. A cry from within, an echo from without.

Another ache, lower this time. _Hungry_. Instincts take charge and nostrils flare. Something… edible. Bits disappear between sharp teeth. _Content._ A warm, comfortable, leathery wall to rest against. _Sleep._

* * *

_Chirp_

What? Something nudged his face, and he woke to find a dark face with big green eyes filling his vision. He shakily rose to his paws, and the eyes followed. _Chirp!_ A tongue assaulted him and knocked him over again. He chirped back, purring and relaxing into the attention.

_Hungry._ He rose to his paws to follow his nose again and tore apart meat and fat to placate his growling stomach.

Sated and exhausted, he found a leathery black nook and went back to sleep.

Sleeping, eating, building strength. Dark to light to dark.

He woke to light spilling from the horizon to feel something else, something new – curiosity. He stared at his paws and forearms. He smelled them. Something moved in his peripheral and he lunged for it, but it slipped away. He stretched the limbs protruding from his back and sniffed them too.

Sound caught his attention, another like him was standing, facing the light and flexing wings. He approached the other and sniffed, which caused it to jump, which caused him to jump. It chirped and cooed and danced around him, so he playfully lunged at it. The pair wrestled until they couldn’t move from exhaustion, and then simply lay next to each other listening to their panting.

He crooned happily and felt the other sidle up to him, where they stayed until they caught their breath.

_Hungry_. The other seemed to agree, together they found their meal and consumed their fill. The meals were starting to smell wrong, but they still filled his belly. He fought off the wave of drowsiness and returned to exploring, running his nose along the cold ground and pushing it into cracks in the wall. He sniffed the small trickle of water they’d been lapping at for drink and took in the myriad of smells from outside, all familiar now but still mysterious.

Another movement in his peripheral, but it again slipped away when he lunged for it. He kept up the chase, trying to catch this thing that seemed intent on taunting him from behind, but it was very fast. He was holding still in a low crouch, waiting, when a different movement caught his attention.

A small black thing meandered along the ground, and he crept up to stare at it with wide eyes. It was a little smaller than his paw, had a rounded black shell and lots of spindly little legs to carry it. It scuttled this way and that seemingly without direction. He poked the scuttling-thing with a claw and it tried to scurry away, but he was much faster and kept putting himself in front of it to head it off.

It scuttled towards the light outside and he again got in its way, but rather than turn around it climbed onto his foreleg. He panicked and flicked it off, then leapt over and batted it for good measure. It stopped scuttling. Morosely, he sniffed at it; the shell was now cracked, and the legs twitched and waved uselessly. The now not-scuttling-thing actually smelled somewhat tasty, and it disappeared between his teeth.

His tiredness very suddenly caught up with him and he just dropped where he stood, curling up a little and drifting straight off to sleep.

He never saw the forlorn look that had been following him.

* * *

“Play!” He bounded to catch up to the other-like-him and lunged at it, but it sidestepped and let him crash into the course sand. “Play?” The other just trudged along, its head low and only occasionally glancing around.

He gave up and fell in behind. They had been walking through sand and undergrowth for much of the dark and he was hungry and weary, but stronger than either was his boredom. The air and land were waterlogged from the rain during the light which thankfully gave them fresh little puddles to drink from, but muffled and confused the surrounding smells which he quickly lost interest in. Everything just smelled wet.

He watched the water smelling thickly of salt wash up to his paws, where it left a dark stain on the sand after receding. Movement caught his eye – a bubble. He tilted his head and moved closer to investigate, smelling the sand. There was something there…

He clawed at the spot until he unearthed the source, a green scuttling-thing about the size of his head and with many legs. It righted itself and waved a pair of limbs in the air at him. He walked around it for a different angle, but it kept turning to face him.

He sat back on his haunches and raised his forelegs in imitation. The scuttling thing didn’t react. Confused, he dropped back down and reached out to touch one of the limbs, but jumped back with a yip when the thing lunged at him.

The other was next to him moments later, and the thing reared a little higher to encompass them both in its waving. The other backed up, then leapt into the air and brought its weight down on the thing to split it open with a sickening _crack_.

He shied at the sudden violence, but then the smells hit his nose and he was drawn in to share, licking the meat out of the hard shell and crunching up the smaller pieces. They both licked their chops and sniffed for scraps. _Maybe there are more?_

Eyes sharp, he padded along the water’s edge and watched the sand when the waves receded. There! He barked and bounded to the bubble, then stepped over and sat behind it. The other followed him and they stared until another bubble surfaced.

“That!” he shouted happily. The other tilted its head at him, but understood as soon as the next scuttling-thing was dug up.

Looking between the thing and the other, who looked at him expectantly, he realised that he would need to get this one himself if he wanted to eat. _Alright then…_ He backed up and crouched low, eyeing his prey warily as the other warbled encouragement.

He sprung into the air but misjudged the consistency of the sand and pitched a little to the side, only landing a glancing blow. The scuttling thing immediately reached up, and pain erupted in his foreleg.

The other’s tail waved in great amusement as he yipped and thrashed, sending the thing skidding across the sand. He licked at the pain; while it didn’t appear to be really hurt it seemed to confirm the hurt to his mind and the pain receded.

An unbidden growl rose in his throat at the scuttling thing. One of its limbs and some of its legs were splayed uselessly, and he lamented not realising about the pincers before. This time he got a little running start, so the sand didn’t surprise him, and successfully crushed the thing.

The other roared with him at his success, and he was left to enjoy it by himself. When he finished and caught up, the other was just finishing off another.

They resumed walking, keeping an eye out for more bubbles, until finally the other seemed to find what it was looking for. Up a short rise on a small beach was a cave, smaller than their last, with good shelter and a rivulet of clear fresh water that ran down near one side.

Too exhausted to explore and overwhelmed from the day’s journey, the pair collapsed in a pile and succumbed to sleep.

* * *

His head was tilted in confusion. The other was sat on its haunches, gesturing to itself and making peculiar sounds.

“Wanderer. Wanderer.”

He didn’t understand, and repeated the sounds. “Wanadarr?”

The other perked happily and patted its chest. “Wanderer.”

He patted his chest and repeated. “Wander.”

The other huffed, swiping a paw to the side, then stepped forward to put its nose to his shoulder. “Dreamer.”

Dreamer understood, if not the meaning of the words themselves. He patted his own chest, “Dreamer,” then the other’s chest, “Wanderer.”

Wanderer tackled him with a happy roar and they tumbled around the floor of their den. Dreamer broke free and shook himself. He wanted to know more! He bounded over to the water and pointed at it.

_Gurgle_. “Water.”

He was so excited that by the time he learned the next thing he’d forgotten the last, but Wanderer seemed happy to humour him and he got better at repeating the sounds. He was trying to ask what the scuttling things were when Wanderer padded up and just solemnly leaned against him.

Dreamer wasn’t sure what to make of it, especially after Wanderer started warbling and mumbling incomprehensibly, but caught his mood and draped a wing over him. He was strange, this other… _Er…_

“Dreamer this, Wanderer this?”

Wanderer chuffed then made some sounds, and Dreamer made certain to commit them to memory.

This other _Nightstriker_ was a strange one.

* * *

Dreamer was _hungry_. _Again._ Or, perhaps, _still?_ He couldn’t remember not being hungry as he prowled the beach for more scuttling-things, but he’d hunted them out many, many nights ago and now rarely found more. Every night Wanderer flapped and scrambled his way up the cliff to disappear over it and would often return with food, but not enough.

The embers of the sky-fire were beginning to light the sky above, so Dreamer dejectedly returned to the den. On his way he saw Wanderer glide in and wait for him, and as he got closer he could see he was holding something in his mouth.

Wanderer set down the rock-like objects and gestured to them. “Egg.” He pressed down on one and it cracked open, spilling its gooey contents onto the smooth stone.

The smell was amazing, and Dreamer happily lapped it all up and made short work of the second.

While he was doing that Wanderer was sniffing at his body and wing joints, but politely waited until the eggs were gone before batting him on the head. “Wings!” He stretched his own wings and flapped a few times to demonstrate.

“Hungry!” Dreamer snapped back at him. The eggs had taken the edge off though, so he dutifully stretched out his wings and made slow flapping motions. What used to tire him in moments was slowly getting easier, and he did enjoy feeling the air beneath them. If he closed his eyes, he could almost expect to just float away on the light breeze.

With a satisfied huff, Wanderer padded off to get a drink, then splayed out in the middle of the den. Dreamer joined him when he couldn’t keep his wings up any longer, and the two lazily tried to bite each other’s legs in a mock fight. It ended when Wanderer, the slightly larger Nightstriker, dropped his weight over Dreamer, who decided he didn’t want to move anyway. The weight was comfortable and warm, and quickly lulled him to sleep.

Dreamer was hungry the next night too and spent much of it gnawing on a piece of driftwood that he’d dragged out of the rain, but the night after that Wanderer proudly brought him a plump wing-prey and announced it was all for Dreamer. Staring at the generous meal with his mouth watering, Dreamer couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen so much food. Actually, he couldn’t remember much of anything right now, the tantalising smell of fresh blood was filling his head.

He ripped away feathers with teeth and claws in a messy haste and tore off large lumps of meat, almost choking a few times. The wing-prey was _huge_ , but by the time he was done all that remained was some of the larger bones and the feathery skin. He was busy scraping off the last morsels of fat when Wanderer returned; Dreamer hadn’t even noticed him leave.

“Wanderer!” He hastily licked his claws clean and bounded to the other Nightstriker. “Teach fly!” His wings snapped out and gave a hard flap, which sent him staggering back a few paces.

Wanderer perked and hummed happily. “Wings, then sleep, then fly.”

“Fly! Fly! Fly!” Dreamer shouted with his wings as he chirped and bounced around the den.

He got a little lesson on the ground while he exercised, Wanderer nudging his wings, tail, tailfins and sub-wings into position, then had him relax and return to the position over and over and over until he was ready to collapse. The sky-fire was flying when they succumbed to slumber in a warm, purring heap.

First to rise was Dreamer, feeling energetic and strangely not at all hungry. He nuzzled and licked Wanderer, then barrelled over him when there was no response. “Hey! Fly!”

Wanderer groaned when sharp teeth bit into his ear, then groggily rolled to look outside. “No. Fly when… dark…” The last words were slow and lethargic as he nodded off again.

With an indignant huff, Dreamer thoroughly stretched all his joints then took to pacing at the mouth of the den. He had _so much energy_ but if he burned it all now he wouldn’t be able to fly later. He willed himself to patience, leaning on the hunter instincts buried in him, and focused on the wind caressing his head.

The water sloshed and burbled as little waves rolled up over the sand, and the sky held only white clouds that promised no rain. _What will it be like, to soar through those white towers?_ A pawful of wing-prey passed overhead, returning from sea presumably towards their nests above. Nests that, in the dark, would be filled with meat and maybe eggs. Though he was still full, Dreamer’s mouth watered.

The gentle decline stretched out in front of him in the low light. He looked down. He looked at his wings. He looked down again. There was maybe two or three body-lengths of rock, then a gentler decline of sand. _Am I really going to do this?_

He was a little startled when a light gust caressed his open wings. Giddiness rose in his chest and before he could have second thoughts he took a running start and bounded into the air. He held his legs as if to keep running down the rock, just in case, but the ground just fell away below.

Dreamer felt like he was hanging from his straining wings, and every twitch of every muscle shook him in the air. He fought to keep as still as possible, and too late saw the ground rising to meet him. His forelegs were still stretched out, but he was pitched too far forward and face-planted into the loose sand. It didn’t abate his excitement – the wind had carried him! He did a little prance in celebration on the beach before running back up to try again.

This time he tucked his legs in after jumping, and made it a little further before nosediving again for another face full of bitter sand. _Now_ he understood what he was doing wrong. On the third attempt he tilted his tail up a little bit, feeling it adjust his pitch. He glided much further, but when he landed he still fell forward into the sand. Maybe his legs needed to get stronger?

Wanderer finally emerged as the embers of the sky-fire burned out, blearily rubbing his eyes and cleaning his face, just as Dreamer was getting comfortable enough to make slight turns by adjusting his tail. Already bounding back up, Dreamer tackled him with a playful growl.

He nipped and batted at Wanderer while he had the advantage but disengaged as the sleepy Nightstriker came to his wits. Wanderer shook, then tasted the air with his nose and eyed Dreamer suspiciously.

Dreamer bounced excitedly a few times then bounded into the air, a little shaky in his glide but much smoother than his first run, though he still ended up in the sand. He returned to an excited, approving Wanderer.

“See.” Wanderer jumped out and flapped for a little altitude, then slowly coasted back to the den. Right before he hit the ground, he tilted his tail to pitch back and flared his wings to catch the air. His back legs took the brunt of his remaining momentum and his front legs soaked up the rest.

Dreamer slumped. That was so _easy_ ; here he’d been eating sand for nothing. His first attempt at landing, he didn’t quite pitch back far enough and it was jarring, but he kept his head off the ground. _Yes!_ He did another celebratory dance before jogging back up.

The next task was to learn how to turn; belatedly Dreamer realised it wouldn’t do well to fly out to sea with no way back. Thankfully a simple turn was very easy, all he had to do was adjust his wingtips to tilt, reflexively his wings pitched back for height and left him in a graceful bank. Unfortunately, between the slight loss of momentum and the new angle of the slope, he found the ground a lot faster and couldn’t level out in time. His rear end spun as he touched down and threw him onto his back.

He grumbled at the amused sounds coming from above as he shook sand out of his ears, and made his way back up.

To do more he needed altitude. Wanderer had him start gliding, then do a single gentle flap just to see how it felt. He wobbled wildly in the air and the little lift he got was lost by the time he got his wings back into position, but he landed without incident. He was much more confident on his second attempt and actually managed a little height.

However, while the stints of gliding had set a pleasant burn into his wings, flapping quickly drained his strength. Dreamer had one last try left in which he was determined to make a last leap of progress. He bounded into the air, flapped with all his strength, then again – with a start he suddenly found himself above the water, much sooner than he’d expected.

He somehow committed to both a third flap and a turn at the same time. Both actions separately would have seen him back safe and dry, but he failed to combine the two and rolled into the water with a panicked cry. It wasn’t deep and he was able to quickly scramble to his paws, spluttering, but salt stung in his nose and the water was _cold!_ He’d also landed on his right foreleg which ached a bit.

Clearly concerned, but not enough to get wet himself, Wanderer was pacing along the waterline. When he was sure Dreamer wasn’t hurt he started bouncing and they shared a little celebration dance.

“Tired,” Dreamer huffed, and made his way back up with Wanderer at his side. He flopped just barely inside the mouth of the den, then stretched out and purred as a firm tongue assaulted his aching muscles.

Wanderer paid particular attention to his painfully sore shoulders, wings, and tail, and enough over the rest of him to clear the salt off. Dreamer was reduced to a rumbling puddle on the cool rock, vaguely aware of an affectionate nuzzle and a quiet flap before being left alone.

He felt really, _really_ good. The burn in his muscles had simmered down to a warm, comforting ache, and his scales felt clean and cool. His mind seemed to be sliding around his head, like the ground was floating away.

Dreamer groggily blinked himself awake to the early onset of hunger; he must have dozed off. It was still dark, and there was no telling how long he’d been out. He stretched and considered going flying again but settled with just slowly flapping his wings without getting up. He wasn’t sore but the weariness was yet to wear off.

_Wow._ With a treatment like that before the sky-fire flew, he would sleep like a rock. His chest tightened as he realised Wanderer wasn’t sleeping properly – he would occasionally thrash himself awake or keen in his sleep, and then have to drag himself up when the sky-fire burned out.

Then his heart sank as he then realised how much Wanderer had done for him, _was doing_ for him, and Dreamer hadn’t really contributed anything. Wanderer was perfectly capable of surviving on his own, Dreamer would last as long as his last meal. Yes he was learning to fly so they could hunt together, but actually flying was still a ways off and then Wanderer would have to teach him hunting too.

He had a lot to think about.

The sky was getting quite blue by the time Wanderer returned, empty-pawed. Dreamer gave him a warm welcome anyway, purring and nuzzling into his neck and chin, but Wanderer shied away. Not discouraged, Dreamer wrapped his forelegs around the Nightstriker’s neck and pulled him to the ground, rubbing into him and purring louder.

Wanderer put up with the treatment for a little while but then pushed him off and ambled over to the water. After a quick drink he lay down again a short distance away, resting his head on his paws with his wings tucked down his sides.

Dreamer wasn’t giving up. He padded over and put his nose to work; Wanderer smelled strongly of exertion, foliage, dirt, and a single furred creature he must have caught and eaten. Dreamer pushed down the pang of hunger that cried in his stomach, and licked at his friend starting on his back between his wings.

Shrugging him off, Wanderer warned him away with an annoyed bark but Dreamer just batted his head a few times. “Stupid,” he muttered at him and kept licking.

There were no further complaints as he did his best to reciprocate, feeling the tension melt under his tongue, and a low purr gradually reached his ears. When Dreamer finished with his back and wings, a small nudge was all that was required to roll Wanderer bonelessly onto his side so the rest of him could be reached.

Dreamer stepped back and smirked at the Nightstriker before him, now completely relaxed and with purrs sliding into the rhythm of sleep. He curled up between the splayed legs, and Wanderer curled around him. They both slept soundly that night.

* * *

Muscles tense, long silent breaths, staying perfectly still and blending into the shadows of the ferns bobbing in the light breeze. Dreamer’s claws gripped the loamy ground, his hungry eyes locked on to the target; a hairy, stocky land-prey foraging in the dirt. Some of these land-prey had long, dangerous tusks but this one had short blunt nubs, though being bigger than even Wanderer it still posed significant threat.

Ears automatically made minute adjustments to keep track of the other land-prey in the area, if one stumbled on the him the whole pack would charge and the Nightstrikers would go hungry again. It was surprisingly difficult to catch wing-prey; the trees protected their nests and perches, and even the young were now nimble enough to dart to safety.

Dreamer hadn’t eaten in two nights, but the aches and weariness expected from such had vanished in the hunt and were replaced with an intense focus and hyper-awareness. If these land-prey could be taken down, he and Wanderer would eat much better.

Even with his excellent night vision and hearing Dreamer had no warning when a shadow crashed into the quarry from above, but wasted no time in rocketing out from under the ferns. Sound erupted from the forest as the rest of the rest of the prey-pack bolted away from the _warning, danger_ shouts of the land-prey. _Perfect._

It only took him two leaps to reach the thrashing quarry. It was rearing back to try to reach the assailant on its back, but Wanderer had clamped his teeth down on the back of its thick neck and dug his claws in firmly. Dreamer was under it in an instant, and the world slowed down. He could see the land-prey preparing to roll onto its assailant, saw Wanderer’s claws pull at the shaggy beast to better expose its neck.

Dreamer was moving without thought, clamping his teeth down on the bared throat – this time, on their third attempt at this hunt, his teeth found purchase and shredded through the flesh, and the taste of blood blossomed in his mouth through the dirty fur. With a twist, using the momentum from his lunge, the flesh in his mouth tore free and the land-prey’s startled bellow cut off.

Though it had seemed longer, the whole attack was over in heartbeats and the two found themselves staring at, for the first time ever, more food than they could both possibly eat. Dreamer spat out the lump of fur, and they tore the meal apart in a bloody frenzy.

Dreamer ate until he physically could not eat any more. The meat was tough and dense, and felt unusually heavy in his belly, but it was _glorious_ to finally be sated. Right now he felt like he needed to sleep for a week, and that he would never eat again.

He forced down one last bite and stepped back with a groan, then fell over laughing. Wanderer looked like he’d been dipped in red, in the dim light Dreamer could just see it glistening all over his face, halfway up his forelegs and halfway down his chest. His distended belly just topped it off.

In his haste to feed Dreamer was probably a similar sight, if not worse, and he could feel leaves and grass sticking to him which only made him laugh harder. Wanderer was choking down a last bite when he looked over – but instead of amusement, his features turned to panic.

His laughter abruptly cutting off, Dreamer approached and crooned uncertainly. His friend – now frantically cleaning himself – was highly distressed, which was uncharacteristic. When he met no objection, Dreamer licked at the places harder to reach until Wanderer was a shiny black Nightstriker again, though he then just sat there staring forward and taking long, shaky breaths.

It didn’t feel safe to hang around a fresh kill for too long, they’d had run-ins with hunter-packs and were both now too heavy to easily escape to the air. Dreamer tugged and barked at Wanderer until he started moving, and they made their way back – on paws – to their beach. It was unfortunately a bit too far to drag the rest of the carcass with them, but right now they were fed and would soon be safe. They would fly future winds when they came.

When they were safely hidden from the rising sky-fire in their den, Wanderer nudged Dreamer onto his side and nuzzled into him with purrs and croons. Dreamer was too drowsy to do more than relax into the attention, and a few licks under his jaw sent him rolling into a deep, relaxed sleep.

The sky-fire was far from the water when they woke the next morning, but even despite their long much-food-sleep that was how it was now. It flew a long path through the sky and then the next fire would kindle and fly before the embers of the last one died off. The Nightstrikers, who derived their name from hunting in the dark, had to make do with twilight and shadows until the nights returned. Even the clouds seemed to have deserted them.

With no need to eat after the previous meal, the two just played in the sand and water. Dreamer dug a hole and hid in it until Wanderer barked in alarm, then leapt from it and tackled him. Well, tried to, the other Nightstriker was half again as big and only staggered. But Dreamer was faster! He leapt from the retaliation and zipped around the shore, Wanderer playfully snapping at his tail but not able to actually catch him.

He just could not be matched in agility or acceleration. Dreamer angled to his left and let his paws sink into the sand for traction, then threw himself in the complete opposite direction. His pursuer had angled to cut him off but was left scrabbling over himself trying to turn around.

The second time Wanderer was ready, so Dreamer followed through on the turn and left him behind again. He laughed, this was too easy for a game. Wings snapped open and he leapt into the air, here he still had his agility but Wanderer was a much better flyer. They soared and whirled and rode updrafts from where the warm light hit the rocks, but their meal was still heavy in their bellies and they quickly tired.

Swooping back to their den, they discovered a serious problem. With there having been no rain in a long time and with the warm sky-fire burning for so long in the sky, their water source was now little more than a damp streak.

Green eyes met green eyes in concern. “Water near?” Dreamer asked, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Wanderer scraped.

The two turned back to the damp groove in the rock and stared blankly. Dreamer could already feel his mouth drying out.

They would need to find a new den.

Wanderer was very unhappy about this, their little beach was safe, however without water it was just as useless to them as to anything else. They couldn’t stay.

Anxiety rose in Dreamer’s chest, and it wasn’t until they were gliding low over the trees before he worked out why. Wanderer was always so confident, so assured, even when they were weak from hunger he always seemed to know what to do. Now, he smelled of and held himself with uncertainty and tension, and that was very worrying to Dreamer.

They glided inland over the treetops. With the water in the ground apparently having dried up, their only hope was that some was caught in a pool somewhere and that meant they had to leave the coast. Wanderer led him through a gap in the foliage and to the ground to walk. The uncertainty had drained from Wanderer’s scent but the tension was still there. Dreamer wasn’t sure that boded well.

Almost-night fell and they were able to move a bit faster. Dreamer finally worked out they were tracking the stocky prey-pack again, but in the wrong direction. _Of course_ , prey needed water too. He started to feel useless again and nudged Wanderer’s flank, making to follow a branch in the trail.

“ _No. Danger,_ ” Wanderer growled quietly, brooking no argument. Dreamer slumped and fell in behind. Thankfully the reverse-trail shortly led to a shallow and muddy pool that tasted flat and dirty, but it was a relief on the tongue. It too would soon dry up though, even if they could stand to live on it, so they moved on.

Needing to rest with the sky-fire rising, they found a hollow in the gnarly roots of a big tree to snuggle up under; there was no play-fighting for grooming rights tonight. Dreamer’s anxiety kept him from completely falling asleep, he was still aware of every sound and smell but the time passed quickly and he ‘woke’ feeling reasonably rested.

As the sky-fire burned to embers in the distant water and they were on their third prey-trail, Wanderer became infected with uncertainty again. The prey in this area were roaming far for meagre sips of water here and there, but most of it was drying up. Dreamer nudged Wanderer’s flank and shook his wings out, “Fly?” Wanderer cautiously warbled, and the pair took to the air.

The light was dim, but their black figures would be easily visible against the sky and Dreamer felt exposed, so they did their best to hug the foliage as they weaved between the pointy treetops. No fancy moves tonight, they flew efficiently, quietly, and solemnly, though it was refreshing to be back in the cool air. He could almost forget about his parched throat.

For what felt like the first time, Dreamer actually _looked_ at his surroundings. Ahead rose an unfathomably high mountain, most of it sheer and bare but with many forested flats nearer its base. About halfway up it connected to a smaller mountain to the south with a bridge of rock, and there was a third peak beyond that in the distance.

From their low altitude Dreamer couldn’t get much of an idea of the layout of the land, but it was very clearly a mess of cliffs and slopes and almost completely covered in vegetation. Not all of it was jagged though, he could see places that had been worn down over time by the flow of water into winding valleys.

_Water_ … If they followed a valley they had a better chance of coming across trapped water. He coasted up alongside Wanderer and brushed his wing to get his attention. “Water go down. Follow down.” He gestured a path down the nearest valley.

He thought he caught a low growl over the air but wasn’t sure. It took the remainder of the almost-night to clear the valley, there were several smooth rock bowls but none with any water left in them. Most had smelled of various land-prey and the largest had reeked of land-hunters, but all the scents were old and they didn’t encounter anything.

They took shelter to almost-sleep in a low overhang of rock they could just squeeze under. They would need to sleep properly in a few nights, but they could keep going like this for now.

Between the walking and flying, their enormous meal was now dwindling and the familiar onset of hunger was scratching at Dreamer’s belly. He could tell Wanderer was feeling it too by his slight increase in alertness and the way his nose tasted the air as they crawled out from the rock; they would now need to look for food as well as water.

Nervously, they took to the air again. Dreamer felt like a beacon in the bright light, but they had to keep moving so he flew as low as he could and set his jaw against the scrapes his wingtips accumulated.

Some way down the next valley they came across a small pool, but Wanderer told him to stay and they waited and rested while the sky-fire fell lower. Just before it touched the water, a tall land-prey with spindly legs and a long muzzle cautiously approached from downwind; Wanderer had placed them above and aside it, so they wouldn’t be sniffed out.

The land-prey was big and looked very fast, but they had to try. Just as they separated, circling their quarry in either direction, it gave a low bark and a much smaller one emerged from the foliage towards the water while the bigger one kept vigil. Dreamer didn’t need to confirm the change of target.

Quickly and silently he stalked through the shadows until he was almost upwind of the quarry, where he coiled under a broad fern and waited. When it finished drinking it nosed at the bigger one, which then took its own cautious drink.

An amorphous black shape emerged from behind it. Wanderer would aim to chase the prey towards the trap, though if he could take it down himself then even better. The smaller land-prey noticed the threat with a jump and a surprised noise, and both land-prey bolted away – towards Dreamer.

Dreamer waited for _just_ the right moment to launch himself from hiding, deftly avoiding the larger land-prey which continued going past him. Their quarry angled away, but he caught up easily and leapt high – its belly was as high as Dreamer’s back – successfully sinking his claws into its flanks and his teeth into its rump.

Their quarry bucked and stumbled, then pain erupted in Dreamer’s chest and he was thrown back. He hit the ground and rolled to a halt, struggling for breath and whimpering as the pursuit disappeared into the trees.

He lay like that until a worried warble sounded and a gentle nose inspected him. Groaning, he leaned so he could inspect his hurt with one eye and found he was missing bunches of tiny scales. He didn’t get much of a chance to look though as the hurt was quickly covered by a wet, soothing tongue. With twitches of pain, he felt some loose scales pulled free.

Wanderer murmured reassuringly and alternated between fussing over him and pacing for threats until the pain subsided enough that Dreamer could get a drink. After slaking his thirst he warbled enquiringly, and Wanderer replied with a low _negative_ ; they would need to hunt again.

Dreamer’s claws were still covered in blood, and he raised them to his nose. When Wanderer ambled over, Dreamer held them out for him to sniff too – the prey was hurt and bleeding, they might still eat.

The trail indicated that the prey had run for a distance but quickly slowed down, and they followed inexorably through dense undergrowth and down steep slopes. Dreamer’s hurt hampered their progress and his recovery had given it a head start, but its hurt was worse. They would catch up.

The pain subsided as the light faded, and they moved faster as their quarry moved slower. Now that they were in their element they loped silently through the low light in high spirits and with intense focus, but both were shattered when they smelled a hunter-pack overlapping the trail.

The two padded to a halt and stared at each other. Dreamer could feel the disappointment and discouragement on his features, just as he could see it on Wanderer; they would not be the predators to eat this meal.

Wanderer turned to the south, his body language a confused turmoil and his scent laden with anxiety. Under his breath he was alternately hissing about water, food, safety, and danger. There were a few strange and unreadable glances at Dreamer too.

This went on until Dreamer sidled up and nuzzled his neck with his own, “ _Trust you._ ” He could feel Wanderer settle into a sort of grim resolution as he came to a decision.

Up into the air they went, Dreamer’s chest loudly complaining its pain to him again with the exertion, and they flew south.


	2. Manifestation

The pair of shadows ducked and wove between the treetops, high enough to make haste but low enough that only the sharpest eye would catch even a glimpse.

Wanderer flapped with purpose and drive while Dreamer struggled a little to keep pace. Their flying had improved dramatically over the last few almost-nights, Dreamer’s in particular; their recently acquired wing-strength was dangerous to practice while the land had forgotten how to be dark, so this was the most experience and exercise they’d had with it.

With all the time they had spent in the air, Dreamer was beginning to see that he needed to let the air and wind work for him and try not to work against it. An errant gust hit him from the side and he simply angled into it to coast on the lift it provided, while recently he would have banked against it and had to flap to keep altitude. It was learning borne of necessity.

Well before the next sky-fire departed the water, a shift in Wanderer’s flying told Dreamer they had arrived. They were gliding into a sort of basin in the hilly terrain, the middle of which was surprisingly devoid of trees considering how densely they surrounded it. As they flew over, it became clear why; the basin dropped sharply into a deep recess in the ground mostly occupied by a large pool of clear water in the centre.

They alighted quietly at the top of a cliff overlooking the hole and melted into the shadows to watch for danger. Upon further inspection, the narrow entrance and exit proved this to be a cove, though quite far from the coast and not currently passing water through. Most of this would probably have been underwater last season from all the rain, but now grass was growing on the loamy ground.

When they were confident it was empty, or at least there was nothing active inside, they glided down and combed the place with their noses; they were alone.

After greedily guzzling down the cool, clear water, Dreamer inspected the high walls surrounding them. They had little visibility of anything sneaking up on them from up there, but then what? Land-hunters could not reach this place, not easily.

Wanderer was still nervous so Dreamer play-tackled him, and they rolled around in the grass until they both only smelled of content and weariness. They then floated in the cool water until the sky-fire showed its light directly to the trees above.

Without much in the way of a nice deep cave, they made do with nestling into each other behind some boulders under a tall rocky overhang. Wanderer crooned _protect, safety_ and _deep sleep_ while nibbling at the itchy-can’t-reach spot just behind Dreamer’s wings.

Dreamer huffed even while stretching and squeaking his approval. It made sense, he’d had to fly harder to keep up and the hunting would go better if he was the one to rest, but he didn’t have to like it. At least Wanderer wasn’t trying to fight for the right to groom him, he wasn’t sure either of them could spare the energy.

Wanderer’s tone shifted to condescending and he started cleaning Dreamer’s face – as if for a hatchling! – but a few quick bats to the head put a stop to it. Wanderer rumbled his amusement and shifted to get a view of most of the cove from around the rocks while Dreamer pointedly cleaned his own face.

The sounds and smells and air and ground were all new so when Dreamer did sleep it was fitful, but still much better than he’d had since leaving their cave. He came to a restless awareness when the sky-fire was still quite high, and soon gave up on sleep.

He pulled himself to his paws with a yawn and smacked his chops; Wanderer didn’t even stir, they were so familiar with each other that they no longer triggered each other’s alertness. He rumbled “explore close” at him, then purred _sleep_ and _protect_. When an ear flicked disapprovingly, he leaned his forepaws onto Wanderer’s back and kneaded the itchy-can’t-reach just above his tail to happy, sleepy yowls.

Dreamer considered repeating the condescending joke on his friend, which would be a good reverse-version of the joke as he thought about it, but left him to sleep instead. When they were not hungry and wary they would play more jokes and he would make up for it then.

This place didn’t smell of safe-nest yet so Dreamer set to work; rolling on the loamy banks, running and tumbling on the grass, marking territory, and splaying out on the big tall rock to bathe in the warmth of the sinking sky-fire while it burned through a gap in the foliage. It was very important work.

But his hunger was making him antsy, and when he found himself absently sharpening his claws on the rock he decided it was time to wake Wanderer. The pair were then bounding through the forest, as much to search for signs of prey-things as to familiarise themselves with their surroundings. He often lost sight of Wanderer, but easily knew where he was by knowing where he was not; everything he could see was not a Nightstriker.

Dreamer’s hunger had not abated but it no longer gnawed at him, now that they were hunting it was sharpening his claws and honing his senses. This way, however distracted he was, they both skidded to a halt as they picked up a solitary smell. Dreamer recognised it as a tall-prey-thing like the last one, and the wound on his chest flared. A silent growl rose in his throat, _this time I will feast on its organs and crunch the marrow from its bones!_

The trail was fresh and they moved swiftly, eyes and ears focused ahead but watching and listening everywhere else too. A devious plan hatched in his mind and he pulled ahead a little to signal to Wanderer that he would lead this hunt. There was no argument.

They moved slower as the scent grew stronger. A flicker of movement ahead didn’t slow them down, they split up to circle it at a tiny signal. Dreamer felt like he had two bodies, both responding to his whim.

Silently, carefully and quickly, they circled their quarry. A juvenile tall-land-prey, its long legs moving slowly over the dry ground. It was thirsty and tired, but wary; its large ears flicked around, and its head swivelled to small sounds. There was little undergrowth to hide in, but they could trust their scales – if only briefly – in the long shadows of the thick trees.

The quarry caught their movement but they were just flickers at the edge of vision; it didn’t yet know its peril. And they were in position.

Dreamer wasted no time and had his Wanderer-body charge out. He watched as the quarry dropped a few paws and sprung away from the threat – _fast!_ – and towards Dreamer.

This tall-prey-thing was slightly larger than their last quarry, but this time he was ready. This time he knew better than to jump behind those thundering hard-paws. This time, when he lunged from his hiding place and the quarry banked away from him, he leaped high with his claws out and raked a row of bloody gashes down the thigh presented to him.

The quarry was badly hurt but not down. _Perfect_. He held Wanderer back and they took up flanking positions, chasing it back up its own trail. If it went any direction but forward it would expose its side to claws and teeth, and it could not let down its guard of thundering hard-paws, so it ran as fast as it could.

The two snapped and snarled at the quarry, forcing it onwards. It stumbled but Dreamer didn’t want to strike yet, it was still big and dangerous to young Nightstrikers. It tried to veer away but sharp snapping teeth reminded it that it went where they wanted it to.

They ran, muscles screaming for rest, but it was nearly over.

Dreamer knew these trees on this incline, and why the quarry was suddenly pulling up despite death snapping at its legs. He was veering to cut it off even before it started turning and was presented with the unprotected side of the quarry. With a flap-enhanced leap he sank his teeth into the back of its neck and rolled over it, twisting and dragging it down, as Wanderer crashed into its injured flank.

Ensuring none of himself was under its main body, and that his wings and tail were out of harm’s way, Dreamer suffered only a mild battering as they rolled, and then they were falling. He let go and snapped out his wings, for a few panicked moments the wind just slid over him, but then he wrested control and glided around their cove. The quarry hit the ground with a _thump_ , and Dreamer swooped in for a merciful kill.

Breathing heavily to catch his breath and savouring the hot liquid in his mouth, he let Wanderer catch up before roaring his defiance and triumph to the sky. Wanderer joined in beside him, if a little more subdued.

Then they were tearing off furry pelt and gulping down meat. The meal was _huge_ , bigger than the both of them combined, and it was trapped here in their nest where they were safe from land-hunters. A large wing-hunter could take it from them, but they were rarely even seen soaring high overhead let alone close enough to smell the easy meal.

With the food right there they had no reason to stuff themselves to bursting, so with bellies only as full as their wings would carry they licked their claws and chops clean and went to float in the cool water to recover from the long chase. Wanderer rumbled _recklessness_ and _concern_ over such a big energy investment but purred _success_ and _clever_. Dreamer would be the one to feed them for a long time now, but while he mumbled back _contribution_ and _not-burden_ he knew his body was yelling _pride_ and _elation_.

When the sky-fire burned away the almost-night and some of their energy had recovered, they managed to drag their kill out of sight. Retiring to their sleeping-place, they licked and kneaded each other’s aches until they dozed off in a rumbling pile.

* * *

Dreamer was cloaked in cool, blissful darkness. The sky-fire was growing weaker by the night, and he could almost forget the nasty much-light season when it had never truly been dark and they had flitted from shadow to shadow like scared prey.

Now he was stronger, and the night hid him from all eyes so he could soar almost wherever he wanted. He was in his favourite perch, a tiny alcove on one of the island’s higher southernmost cliffs where he was hidden from the wing-hunters that nested on the flats. Here, Dreamer liked to gaze at the uncountable sky-sparks above. He couldn’t remember ever really _looking_ at them before the much-light season, and now he couldn’t get enough. So bright, but so impossibly far away that they barely touched the ground with their light.

He had recently asked Wanderer what his name meant and was a little indignant to learn that it implied he was sleeping all the time. With a strangely pained amusement, Wanderer explained – with no small difficulty – that he could see the world as it was not.

So he still didn’t know what his name meant, but here, staring up at the twinkling sky, he could almost get a sense of it.

While not nearly as impressive, below was also interesting and the reason of his preference for this perch. A tiny little island, separated by only a thin line of sea, sported little green lights. Some were stationary, others occasionally appeared and wandered around for a little while. There also didn’t appear to be a single tree on the island, but there were a lot of strange humped shapes all over it. He was excruciatingly curious, but Wanderer had very loudly and firmly attached _danger_ and _death_ to the place when they had first been able to fly more freely.

For now, he was content with staring from afar. Perhaps when he was bigger and stronger they would investigate.

The position of the sky-sparks told Dreamer the sky-fire would soon kindle, so he extended his wings and stepped out into the wind. Feeling a bit mischievous, he tilted his wings and let the wind flip him onto his back and into a dive.

He squinted a little to let the shape of his snout push the air over his eyes instead of letting it blast into them, and felt a tiny whistle build in his tucked wings. Wanderer could make a better whistle, maybe because he was bigger.

The treetops were beside him when he pulled out of the dive, his protesting wings flipping his momentum back up into the sky. Freefalling _up_ was one of the best feelings in the world and he revelled in it, spinning and mumbling happiness to himself as he defied the fundamental law of the sky.

Once the momentum had bled out, he flipped out his wings and coasted idly back to the cove, taking the scenic route. The sky-sparks were beginning to dim as the sky-fire kindled, but he was thankfully still hidden in darkness when the cove came into view and he spotted the intruder.

Dreamer’s blood turned to fire in his veins, there was an _intruder_ in their nest! How did it even get in there? It was much bigger than he or Wanderer, but it did not have wings. Beyond that, he couldn’t see much, it was perched on a rock near the water and hunched in on itself. What was it doing? Waiting for him and Wanderer?

… _Where was Wanderer?_

Panicking, he scanned the cove but there was no sign of his friend, no unmoving black blob in the darkness. A tentative relief settled on him, it was unlikely the intruder had time to fight Wanderer, take him away, then return, and Wanderer had no reason to return early on such a beautiful night.

What should he do? Fighting was unwise, but he couldn’t stay in the sky with the sky-fire burning in the water.

He eyed one of the higher cliffs overlooking the cove, it was a safe distance up and had a nice cover of ferns, he could hide with a good view. Not wanting to risk being heard, he glided behind his chosen watch-place and flared his wings to descend slowly and quietly.

Only a pawful of heartbeats passed without sight of the intruder, and it had not moved. Crouching low and peering over the edge with the dry leaves stroking his back, he got a much better look. It seemed to mostly have a very flat fur, except for the very long fur on its top, with a few large grey scales here and there. It was curled in on itself, denying Dreamer a good look at its body.

As the last of the sky-sparks faded, but before the night had really lifted, it looked up. Its eyes both faced forward suggesting it was a hunter, and its face was strangely flat. Dreamer was reminded of some of the bugs he’d found, even more so when it uncurled; its forelegs were freakishly long and thin for its body, and its hindlegs seemed to move at weird joints high in its hindquarters which were covered in long spiked segments.

It got even more bizarre as the hunter-thing slipped down the rock and balanced – not precariously, but surely and confidently – on its two hindlegs, though it had no tail. Forelegs dangling by its sides, it walked towards Dreamer. _Had it seen him?_ No, the entrance to the cove was in that direction, that must be how it got in; its bizarrely tall and narrow body must fit through the crack in the wall.

Dreamer listened to it scuffle its way through the forest until he was sure it wasn’t doubling back, then carefully dropped down into the shadows.

The trapped smells of the cove confirmed the land-hunter had been alone, but he couldn’t get a good read on its scent. It was as if five different hunter-things and prey-things had been mashed together, he even recognised some of them, and there was a weird sharp earthy undertone. He was still sifting through it all when Wanderer returned, who immediately picked up on the smell with a low growl.

“Here, land-hunter nest-place?” Dreamer offered, if one could get in and out it offered good protection and clean water, but Wanderer flicked a _negative_ with his paw and refused to say more. He seemed very conflicted as he traced the smell from the entrance to the rock, and back again.

Regardless of Wanderer’s reaction, Dreamer didn’t like it either; this hunter-thing had just wandered into and out of their nest, it could do so again. But should they move? There weren’t any good caves nearby, and they didn’t know of any other reliable source of water; there had been light showers, but no good rain to replenish the land. He didn’t want to fight the land-hunter if he could help it, it was totally alien to him.

For a pawful of nights after that they observed their nest from hiding while the sky-fire kindled and started to fly, and for longer after that they alternately slept in alert almost-sleep under a fern on a small ledge; they were familiar now with the sounds of the cove, but they kept an eye open as well. The land-hunter did not return.

It clawed at Dreamer’s insides. What did it want? If it wanted to take their nest he could handle that. If it wanted to steal their food he could handle that. If it wanted their water he would hide and let it drink, as they did with the wing-hunters that sometimes visited during the light, but it had wanted none of those things. Was it specifically after them?

He had to know more, night after night of this was driving them crazy. Wanderer had only repeated _danger_ and _death_ when he had suggested it, so he would just go – carefully – on his own.

As usual he rose with the sinking sky-fire, having been his turn to sleep deeply, completed his morning routine including a tussle with Wanderer, and set to the sky. This night however, when the sky-sparks covered the sky between the sprawling clouds, he swooped down and landed on one of the lower ledges on the north-west side of the precarious spire that topped the small island.

He’d never been this close before, and strange sounds met his ears. Loud barks and cries mostly, wildly varying in pitch and tone without sense or reason, punctuated with regular wooden banging noises. What kind of pack was this? They actively announced their location, though the sheer number of them was daunting; perhaps that was their way of warding off threats.

Slowly, carefully, Dreamer rounded the spire. The eyes of the hunter-thing in their cove didn’t look good for night-seeing, and there was so much noise he could crash land here and they wouldn’t notice, so he was confident. He tried not to let his curiosity stoke, tried to convince himself that this was purely to put his mind at ease, but part of him was giddy at finally getting a closer look at what he’d stared at from above for so long.

The more he rounded the spire the more light was visible, like the green ground-sparks he would watch from his perch but much stronger. It gave him a good view of one of the nearby humps which appears to be many trees woven and flattened into shape. Very strange.

A little further showed him the light came from a cave in the very rock he crept upon, and spilled down the rocky teeth below. Fires burning at the top of tall rocks flanked the entrance, creating numerous shadows to hide in, but he was wary of approaching further. Dreamer watched a much bulkier tall-land-hunter walk from the cave and down the rock-teeth, and at one of those strange barks it turned around and barked back. It was close enough that he got a very good look at its features and the things it draped itself in.

Then pain lanced through Dreamer’s head and his world went black.

* * *

Stoick stared sombrely at the fire. It was not doing a very good job of lighting the house, but it didn’t matter. He could see his boot, the only one he was wearing and was halfway through undoing. The one he had started undoing half an hour ago.

He sighed, his pillow calling to his weary, sleep-deprived body and mind. Staring at the fire all night would not stave off the inevitable forever. The boot finally removed, he stumbled to bed and stared at the ceiling, praying for peace.

Peace, like Hiccup and Valka had wanted. _I don’t want to fight dragons._ That had been what his son had said a year ago, almost exactly now. He hadn’t listened, he had never listened. _I promise you dad you can’t win this one!_

He could, in his mind’s eye, only watch as his son flew on the back of that Night Fury, single-handedly plucking friends and the entire village from danger, and then bringing down the immense dragon they had roused.

No… Please Odin, not again... _The pair fired directly into the beast’s mouth and pulled up just shy of the ground, the beast crashing into it behind them. The shockwave nearly knocked everyone off their feet, and when Stoick looked up he saw it had thrown Hiccup from his dragon which was desperately flapping to reach him again._

Please… _A fireball followed moments after, and the pair and the crumpling queen were hidden from view._

 _“…For a great…_ man… _has fallen…”_

No more… _He was stumbling through the wake of the dreadful blast, great flakes of ash floating peacefully in the air. “Hiccup! Hiccup!” he shouted into the smoke, but there was no reply. “Son!”_

_“…a warrior…”_

Not again… _A black shape materialised in the gloom as he neared, the Night Fury curled on itself and breathing raggedly. He half ran and half staggered to it, finding its saddle, tail apparatus and part of its wing were all twisted, broken and ruined beyond repair._

_“…a son…”_

No… _He was barely aware of a gasp behind him. “Oh son…” He kneeled in front of it and it roused, opening an eye to fix him with a glare._ You did this, _it said. It was right._

_“…a–… a friend.”_

Stoick was roused by unholy screeches and shrieks from just outside. Pulling himself out of bed, he hastily donned his shoes and coat, then crashed through the door. His mask of chiefly authority was already settled over his face.

By this point, shouting had been added to the din and villagers were streaming from the Great Hall and their houses. He waded his way through the crowd to find Astrid and Snotlout wrestling with something at the base of one of the large torches by the entrance to the Great Hall, the fire casting eerie shadows over them.

“What’s going on here?” he bellowed.

“It’s not what it looks like sir,” Astrid said hurriedly over the shrieks, “we found it like this.”

Stoick approached cautiously to see they were wrestling with a shadow, and his breath caught in his throat as his eyes adjusted to its features. “Is that…?”

“A Night Fury? Yeah. A little one.” Murmurs behind him spread like wildfire.

 _What on Midgard…?_ They’d brought Toothless back with them and kept the listless dragon warm and fed for the winter, but it’d disappeared as soon as the snow started melting. They’d searched as far as they’d dared – the dragon wasn’t ever flying again – but hadn’t found him.

And now this. Stoick reeled with questions, but they could wait. Had to wait. He reached down and wrapped his hands around the fledgling, making sure to pin its forelegs so that the claws couldn’t scratch him, and picked it up.

It thrashed in his hands, beating its head against his wrists, then very suddenly went limp. He quickly loosened his grip, but the little dragon was still breathing if raggedly.

“I call di–“ Snotlout started, but was cut off by Astrid elbowing with enough force to drop him to the ground.

“Someone get Fishlegs!” Stoick roared and motioned to Astrid to follow, but found himself facing a wall of villagers. Astrid actually had to wave her axe to give them room to reach Stoick’s conveniently close and quiet home.

It wasn’t until he was inside that Stoick realised how loud it was out there, people falling over each other for a look at the legendary dragon – though even as he held it Stoick couldn’t get a good look in this low light.

He kicked a discarded garment to the fireplace and gently laid the dragon on it, then grabbed some wood and coaxed the fire back to life. Astrid fetched water for two bowls, one she laid next to the dragon and the other she dipped a clean cloth in to wipe at its head. It came back red.

Trying not to jump to conclusions, he let out a slow breath. “From the start, lass.”

Astrid nodded while she worked. “We were just hanging out in the Great Hall when we heard the screeching, I grabbed the nearest Viking – _Snotlout_ , typically – and we bolted for the sound. Took us a moment to realise it was coming from on top of the Great Hall, when it damn near fell on us. Once we realised we _weren’t_ under attack, we got a closer look and found it _clawing_ at its own _head_. Just got it pinned when you arrived.”

He nodded slowly, and they stared at the dark lump on the floor until there was a nervous knock on the door. Stoick sighed. He would never understand this boy, but at least knew how to deal with him now. With Gothi refusing or unable to treat dragons he’d become the unofficial dragon expert, and they needed his services regularly for the few dragons that had come back with them to Berk and for a few wild dragon problems.

Stoick planted his boot in front of the door and turned the latch. It immediately burst open but only as far as the boot, which allowed him to reach out and grab Fishlegs over his mouth to stop the word-vomit before it could start. “ _Fishlegs. Serious,_ ” he growled, and the boy nodded with wide eyes.

Stoick stepped back and allowed Fishlegs into his house. The boy _could_ be serious when he needed to be, if he sometimes needed reminding, as Stoick observed him checking over the dragon with concerned noises. He and Astrid took a seat as he worked.

“Interesting,” Fishlegs murmured at one point, and the three of them jumped as the dragon then screeched and thrashed for a moment before going limp again.

Finally, Fishlegs delicately adjusted the Night Fury on the garment, moved it a little closer to the fire, and kneeled next to it facing Stoick and Astrid. “Well, physically he seems fine by average dragon standards, aside from the scratches on the head.” Astrid received a look that said she would be interrogated later. “But, we know next to nothing about Night Furies. Only what Hiccup jotted down in his journal and, well, I hesitate to use what _we_ know of Toothless as a baseline.”

“The _point_ , Fishlegs.”

“Right, uh, from his reactions I’d say this is some sort of psychological trauma. His mind is being overwhelmed by something. He was found by the Great Hall?” Astrid nodded. “This is _weird_. He doesn’t seem old enough to have been through the sort of experience that would cause… this,” he gestured to the dragon, “then somehow make his way here.

“For now he needs to rest. We’ll know more when… _if_ he gains consciousness. I’ll monitor him and keep this fire stoked.”

“It’s not staying here Fishlegs. Take it up to the stables.”

“All due respect Chief, we are _not_ moving him.”

“No.”

“We have no idea how fragile he is right now, it could cause permanent damage. And it’s much easier to keep him warmer in here, pluuuuus I don’t want to introduce him to the other dra–”

“Alright, alright, fine,” Stoick interrupted. “Astrid, hand him a blanket from that cupboard. You,” he rounded on Fishlegs, “are going to _follow your own advice_. None of your… _dragon nonsense_ until he’s stable.”

“But-“

“ _That’s the deal_. Unless you have a _very good_ reason, keep your hands _to yourself_.” He turned to see Astrid out before there could be any argument. “Must be Thor’s Day,” he grumbled to himself while rolling back into bed, “never could get the hang of Thor’s Day…”

He grit his teeth when the boy started whispering, but he was reminded of listening to Hiccup furiously scribbling away at the desk in his room above, and let it slide.

The nightmares weren’t so bad that night.

* * *

Hiccup worked the pedals by Toothless’ shoulders and they almost seemed to flip in the air, screaming towards the ground one moment and away from it the next. The thin, smouldering leather had just barely held for the manoeuvre.

The creature behind them had been travelling just as fast however, and they only just got clear of it. Toothless was trying to angle them up and away, but something slammed into them from behind and they were unexpectedly ripped apart and thrown straight up.

Dazed, Hiccup watched Toothless twist in the air and flap to reach him, and then he was enveloped in a tight leathery embrace. The world went dark, but he could hear the fire roaring past them, felt it even through his friend’s fireproof hide.

Then there was pain. Hiccup couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, his right arm was _gone_ and he couldn’t feel anything further down than an excruciating pain halfway down his back.

He felt oddly calm about it, seeing everything with a cold detachment as if from a distance. He had no reason to panic, to do anything other than wait for death to claim him and see where it led. He let go of his broken body, and the world crackled and sparked away.

 _Dreaming_.

He was dreaming. A long, happy dream, but he was waking up now. He knew because he could remember himself before the dream, unlike a dream where you knew nothing of your waking self.

His head hurt, both a deep throbbing ache inside his skull and a sharp pain on his scalp. _Is this Hel? Guess I was never a great Viking after all… Didn’t even have a dagger to go out with._

Waiting for the throbbing to lessen, he felt his memories clicking together like a great puzzle. Pieces fit in here and there, forgotten until they rotated and slotted into–

“Toothless!” he tried to shout and jolt upright, but failed at both. What he managed was a strangled sound and a twitch. That set his head off again, but the pain faded more quickly. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and the shape before him resolved into the main room of his house. _I’m… in my house?_ He rolled and was startled by Fishlegs staring at him with wide eyes, about a foot away. _You’re… in my house…_

Hiccup tried to ask what happened, but his mouth refused to form the words. Groggily he raised a hand to his head – _Oh, that’s not a hand. Haha, I’m still dreaming._ This dream apparently did not want him to do anything right now because his head was blindingly painful, so he just closed his eyes and relaxed. What was it that Tuffnut had called this? A lucid dream? Yeah, that was it. Awesome, he’d love to play dragon.

The memories were still slotting into his head, but he couldn’t make sense of them. What had happened after the battle?

As if on cue, that memory slotted into place and his eyes painfully jerked open. There was _no way_ he had survived that. Huh. Maybe his soul was actually that of a dragon? That would explain how he’d connected with Toothless so readily. A lot of other stuff too, as he thought about it. He didn’t feel cut out for Valhalla anyway.

So, he was in the dragon afterlife? Which was apparently… his house. Fishlegs was here too. Okay, he was still working out the details.

Leaning on his memories as Dreamer – and how _appropriate_ that name seemed now – he worked his dragon body into rising, finding the large bowl of water next to him. It was a little warm from the fire, but fresh and soothing on his parched throat.

He licked the bowl dry and stared at the fire. Hiccup was pretty sure fires weren’t normally green, they were… yellow… The thought sent small shooting pains through his head again, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He could almost see the memories now, not slotting into place but _converting_ to his dragon head. He could remember fire was yellow, but not what yellow looked like.

“Ww ltilte guuuy, youw wree rlelay thstiry. I’lll guht youw smoe mroe wtear.”

 _What?_ Hiccup recognised talking, and he was thinking in Norse, but his ears were picking up tones and sounds that skewed the words to be almost unrecognisable. He could even hear the saliva sticking in Fishlegs’ mouth and throat while he worked them.

As he watched Fishlegs retrieve more water, a thought hit him. As if to confirm that thought, a _mountain_ rose from the far end of the room and proceeded to drape itself in furs. Hiccup froze. Part of him was trying to find solace in that this hulking mass was surely his father, but he himself was by all appearances a _Night Fury_. The two didn’t have the best track record together.

The mountain stomped towards him. He could feel the vibrations through his paws, and his wide panicked eyes soaked in every detail, but he couldn’t see his father’s expression past that _enormous_ beard.

The walking mountain stopped, grumbled to Fishlegs and was passed something with quiet words, then lowered to his knees and hunched over. Hiccup could see his expression now, half of it anyway, and it was full of wonder and questions and completely devoid of malice. In that pose, Stoick shuffled the last few paces and held out a small fish.

Relief washed over Hiccup. Whatever bizarre reality this was it wasn’t one where he would be tortured and possibly killed – again? – by his father. Collecting himself, he eyed the fish hungrily. When it was close enough, he leaned forward, gingerly took it in his teeth and swallowed it in two bites; it wasn’t a small fish after all, his father just had ridiculously large hands.

Fishlegs returned with the water bowl refilled and Hiccup gratefully lapped up a bit more, listening to the conversation between his father and Fishlegs but not able to understand it. Stoick’s attitude was relieved and – separately – resigned. Fishlegs was bouncing on his heels.

Hiccup froze again. _Uh oh_.

* * *

Wanderer paced anxiously in the darkness. He’d circled the area several times now, but no matter what he did he just could not see any way to retrieve Dreamer. He’d heard the cries and rushed towards them to find him being bodily held down by a pair of Long-Paws with more gathering. Panic gripped him; they were _torturing_ his Dreamer, and every shrill shriek dug icy claws into his chest.

He’d been about to jump in with teeth and claws to allow Dreamer to escape, but the giant Long-Paw was suddenly there. Even with Nightstriker blood in the air, even when Dreamer suddenly went still, he knew he couldn’t take on that behemoth. It would do neither of them good to both be captured or killed.

He could only watch with some relief to see Dreamer still breathing as they carried him into the nearby flat-tree-den. Wanderer had been prowling for opportunity since; it gave his paws something to do.

So help him, if Dreamer didn’t return _unharmed_ he would _raze_ this _entire_ small-land to the _sea_.

The sky-fire was starting to kindle when Long-Paw sounds emerged from the flat-tree-den. He darted to the back of it and blended into the darkness, keeping his ear close to the wall.

His heart leapt when he heard Dreamer, he was making _do not want_ sounds but they weren’t panicked; that was very good. Was that a growl? It was followed by hurt and plaintive Long-Paw noises, and Wanderer felt great pride for him.

Carefully, quietly, Wanderer chirped. Not loud enough for the Long-Paws to hear, but by the sudden silence from inside, Dreamer had heard. He chirped again and a commotion started, crashing and surprised Long-Paw noises, then a hard scratching and incredulous Long-Paw noises that quickly turned to panic.

Then Dreamer was beside him, and they were bounding into the darkness and out of sight before leaping from the nearest cliff.

Under the early light they roared their happiness and relief, and looped in tight circles around each other above the water. Sadly, they were soon forced back to their nest by the rising sky-fire, though having run on panic and worry for most of the night Wanderer was flagging.

As soon as they landed in their nest he was all over Dreamer looking for hurts. The smaller Nightstriker was holding himself well, and the only outer hurts were the shallow scratches on his forehead.

Wanderer snarled and grumbled as he licked at them, but Dreamer shook his paw. “No. Dreamer hurt Dreamer.” That didn’t make sense and Wanderer was sure it was still somehow the Long-Paws’ fault, but Dreamer wasn’t holding a grudge so he wouldn’t either.

Then there was much cuddling and crooning in the sleeping-nest. Dreamer didn’t quite share the same enthusiasm for their reunion – it had only been one night, after all – but Wanderer didn’t care. He nuzzled in behind Dreamer’s head to breathe his scent, separating it from the myriad of Long-Paw scents, and wrapped him tightly in his wings.

He felt the long breath Dreamer took before he spoke. “What… tall-land-hunters?”

“Long-Paw. Very danger. _Stupid_ Dreamer–“

Dreamer cut him off by bumping his chin, and took another shaky breath. “Wanderer, Dreamer friend… before Dreamer Nightstriker…?”

Wanderer went rigid. Dare he hope again? It had been far too long…

“When… Dreamer Long-Paw?”

The wing snapped and Wanderer’s emotions burst forth. He keened and whined, grappling to hold Dreamer – the _real_ Dreamer – tightly to him. For so long he had been alone and lost, until this fragile long paw had somehow, miraculously, established a connection between them. Despite everything Wanderer had done to its nest, this fledgling had not seen an enemy. It had seen _him_ , as an individual, and as one it wanted to help just for the sake of helping, and the bond they kindled had grown stronger with each night.

Wanderer had wanted so much for his impossible Long-Paw to live, had grasped at straws and it _seemed_ to work but it was an impossible thing and then it _wasn’t_ his Dreamer but that was impossible also, and he didn’t know what to think…

Wanderer whined and wailed all of this and more without restraint while Dreamer just held to him firmly, purring _happiness_ and _reassurance_ , until eventually – somewhere between twitching his failure to protect and mumbling guilty regret for not blasting the giant Long-Paw when he had the chance – the exhaustion claimed him, and he fell into a light but comfortable sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who hadn't worked it out already I didn't want to spoil things. Now that the Terror's out of the sack I can give a huge shout out to Brothers of Night on FFN, my primary inspiration for this work. It's an amazing fic and I highly recommend reading it if you haven't already.
> 
> Of course, this will be my own take on a Dragon-Hiccup story and is (as far as I've written) quite different from anything I've read so far, some of which will be evident in the next chapter. Speaking of, this will update weekly for the immediate future and hopefully I can maintain my buffer to continue posting regularly (may drop to 1-2 weeks due to interference by that pesky 'life' thing).
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome, general thoughts/feedback are greatly appreciated (if you comment as you go I will love you forever) and I hope you enjoy! ^_^


	3. Decision

Hiccup-Dreamer slowly drifted to awareness at dusk. He’d spent much of the previous night unconscious, and while that wasn’t the same as sleep his body was crying out for him to move, to do something. Everything in his head now seemed to be in place; at least, the pain was gone and he was starting to think more clearly as he woke. Much more clearly than yesterday.

His mind reeled into focus and his eyes snapped open. He had unequivocally been killed in the battle with the queen dragon, there was no denying that, so he could only be in the afterlife. However, while he wasn’t familiar with dragon gods, it made no sense for the afterlife to be an exact copy of Midgard complete with its people, so he could only be still alive.

Wanderer – Toothless – stirred, and Hiccup hastily separated from him. Nobody had ever even seen a Night Fury before, let alone had any idea of their capabilities. The words ‘ _dark dragon magic’_ were doing frantic laps in his head.

The world spun and he fought to stay upright, automatically grounding himself by focusing on the smell of the cool air, feeling the damp grass beneath his paws. Paws! The spinning got a little worse. It was as if he had woken from a pleasant dream to find he was still asleep, and reality was trying to brute force its way into his mind.

A nudge bought him back to his senses to see Toothless – an adorable, tiny baby Toothless – on his haunches, watching him with his head bowed submissively. His expression was pained but understanding when Hiccup took a step back.

“H… how?” Hiccup asked jerkily in the dragon language.

Toothless let out a slow breath, then spoke slowly. “Nightstrikers rare, special. Need much for… make.” He swung his tail out in front of him and put a paw on his left tailfin. The one that had been ripped off, though it was now much less absent. “Have way for survive grounding. We… hatch again.” He whined and looked away, kneading the grass, when Hiccup just continued to stare at him. “I not know how hatch you again. Just wanted… wanted not be alone again…” He sank to the ground and covered his face with his paws, the dragon equivalent of sobbing.

Hiccup had to consider all that Toothless had done for him over two seasons, after apparently saving his life – in a way – and felt a little bad. He approached the prone dragon and pressed his snout to his head. “You not bad, I not fear you. This… very strange. I not know… what think.” There was no reaction.

He sighed. Questions burned inside him, and he needed answers, but Toothless was still the best friend he’d ever had and Hiccup didn’t want him upset. Demanding answers would get him nowhere, he needed to get Toothless out of this moping first. They could finally talk, and he could ask all the silly little questions he’d ever had! Except, now that he actually could, he drew a complete blank.

Finally, an innocent question floated to the surface. “What name you give Long-Paw me?”

_Snort._ “You always Dreamer. You free big-deadly-hunter-thing. You follow big-deadly-hunter-thing. You feed, play with big-deadly-hunter thing. You–… you make new tail-fin… You _climb_ big-deadly-hunter-thing. _Stupid_ hatchling. Sire, dam–”

This was followed by a string of words Hiccup didn’t know yet, but the tone left him with a pretty good idea of exactly what Toothless thought of his parents. At least he had sat up and wasn’t hiding under his paws anymore.

The tirade finally ended with a huff, and they sat in awkward silence.

“…What my Long-Paw name?”

If Hiccup was physically capable of going white, he would have. The name had been accidental, a jest and merely something to call to announce himself. Thankfully Toothless was staring contemplatively to the side and hadn’t noticed him go rigid.

Toothle–… er… Wanderer tapped his claws on a rock, growled, then hissed. “Name sound like _hunting_ , dangerous, strong, –“

“You hunt praise for feel better,” Hiccup teased, hoping it masked his trepidation. Could he convincingly say it meant nothing? He wasn’t sure.

“–mysterious, wild, –“ he continued, ignoring Hiccup to list haughty descriptions for himself.

Hiccup realised he really was fishing for praise, and the words slipped out in a brief and suicidal desire to put the arrogant dragon in place. “No-Teeth.”

“–…”

“…”

The only warning Hiccup had was a miniscule – and yet still somehow violent – twitch of his friend’s jaw, accompanied by a barely audible _snick_ , but it was enough; he was off.

“I show _you_ no-teeth! _Come back here!_ ”

Genuine fear fuelled his legs in tight laps around the cove. While he didn’t think Too–… _Wanderer_ would really hurt him, the snarling and snapping at his tail was not entirely playful. The dragon might have decided to give him a permanent reminder of his insolence.

Hiccup would have had no trouble keeping ahead, being forced in circles as they were, but it was difficult to breathe around his hysterical laughter.

He did several laps of the cove before the pursuit tailed off. With Wanderer pacing the other side of the lake, Hiccup collapsed and wheezily tried to recover his breath. He only remembered _dragons can fly_ at almost exactly the moment Wanderer lunged straight at him from across the water, and he was on his paws again.

Wanderer started trying to cut over the lake, while it cost him distance it was wearing Hiccup down faster to keep changing direction. Hiccup couldn’t find any way to use his wings more efficiently than his legs, though not through lack of trying, and leaving the confines of the cove was certain to be his end.

Finally, the fight left him. He could no longer maintain his prodigious speed and resigned himself to whatever fate awaited, reflexively tucking his wings tightly to his body. The first strike was a pounce on his tail, the sudden drag throwing him out of his stride and to the ground. The second strike was Wanderer unexpectedly tumbling over him, clearly not having thought the attack through, though he recovered quickly.

Hiccup found himself on his back, desperately throwing limbs in the way of the snapping jaws aimed at his neck and body. The teeth were very sharp, but the bites were weary and weak such that they tickled more than they hurt which – horrifically – caused loud involuntary squeals that further enraged Wanderer.

Eventually the assault ended with Wanderer dropping bodily on him, and they lay in a heaving heap. Hiccup’s legs prickled and tingled, though not unpleasantly, and his muscles burned in a way that said he would be very cramped tomorrow. He didn’t regret it.

As he caught his breath, Hiccup’s mind started wandering again. “I not can go back Long-Paw, can I?” The question was mostly a statement.

Wanderer sighed. “World is big, many strange things. I not think Long-Paw can be Nightstriker.” He tilted his head so he could glare at Hiccup with a single green eye. “…Would you go back…? If could…?”

Hiccup couldn’t answer the question. Part of him longed to return to his own body, to go back to tinkering in the forge and covertly staring at Astrid whenever she brought in her axe for repair. Another part of him was happy to be free of all the expectations, disappointment, and particularly the bullying. There was also the fact that he was a _Night Fury_ , the fastest, smartest, strongest, and best-looking dragon.

…

He was _pretty_ sure he used to think that as a human, and hadn’t just inherited a draconic arrogance.

Avid curiosity suddenly spiked in him. He knew his own body of course, living as Dreamer, but now he had an appraising eye. He knew that most of his body was covered in tiny little scales, but holding a foreleg up to his face he found he couldn’t focus on them. The tree on the other side of the cove seemed clearer than his own paw. Well, a little farsightedness was to be expected.

Maybe he would see better in the light, he’d forgotten the sky-fire had set ages ago as the cove was startlingly clear despite being only lit by sky-sparks and a tiny sliver of sky-ice. _Guess I’m nocturnal now,_ he mused as he surveyed the world in monotone night vision.

He took a moment to appreciate how the dragon words weren’t out of place halfway through an otherwise Norse thought, and that some of the dragon-words had almost completely replaced Norse ones. The… _sun_ was a fire, it was in the sky, ergo sky-fire. The… _moon_ was a cold ball that waned with proximity to the sky-fire, and it was also in the sky, so it was sky-ice.

It was a pity he couldn’t geek out about it with Fishlegs, the enthusiastic teen would love to document all this. _Would have, anyway…_ Had it really been nearly a year?

He cut that line of thinking for now, busying himself with sheathing and unsheathing his teeth – a _bizarre_ sensation – and playing with his claws. Wanderer tired of his fidgeting and rolled off, allowing him to try to shake his fatigue away.

Stretching his wings out, he felt his tail flex behind him automatically. If he’d not already lived in the body for so long, the jump from four limbs to seven, not even including the sub-wings, would have been a severe shock. Now, the thought of having five long dextrous fingers was the strange thing. Although, he had to admit, breathing fire was still a completely foreign concept. _That_ was something to look forward to.

Hiccup considered his name. Dragons didn’t seem to get hiccoughs and probably had no word for it, and he didn’t want to ask Wanderer how to say ‘runt’. He certainly wasn’t going to ask to be called either. He never did like that name, so he reasoned he might as well accept his dragon one what with currently being a dragon and all.

…

If he’d expected some profound change of identity, he was disappointed. Actually, he seemed to be taking the whole thing pretty well all things considered, though that he had already been living in this reality for two seasons was certainly a huge factor. Still, maybe he should chalk up an existential crisis for himself later to make up for it.

The big question was, what now? He needed to talk to Wanderer some more but the nearby snoring told him that wasn’t happening soon. Well, the nights were long, he had time.

* * *

It had been a hard sell, but Dreamer had managed to coax out that Wanderer didn’t really have a solid plan for the winter beyond ‘hole up somewhere and hope we don’t freeze,’ and convinced him from there.

That was how he found himself lazily slumped over the nose of the dragon carved from the protruding ridge beam of his old house in the pre-dawn. He reasoned it was perfectly plausible a dragon would return, if warily, to a place it had been treated and fed. Wanderer trusted him enough that he was also there, laying between the ears of the carving, but while he may have appeared relaxed his eyes and ears were subtly darting around. Well, Dreamer could hardly blame him. As far as he knew, the only experience Wanderer had had with the Viking village was being beaten and chained.

_Had they even fed him on the boat?_ It took four days to reach the nest by water with a good wind. Dreamer felt his stomach turn, suddenly aware of how very tired and hungry the poor dragon must have been during the fight with the queen. Berk would be making amends whether it knew it or not.

Of the villagers, there was a steady trickle trekking into and out of the Great Hall. The nights may be long but work still needed doing, it just depended which side of the night they preferred doing it. None of them had yet noticed the two Night Furies lounging on the house, though that wasn’t surprising in the low light.

Dreamer grew impatient when the sky-fire peeked out of the water, and allowed a squeaky yawn to escape as a group of women passed. It didn’t take long after that for a crowd to assemble, all cooing and whispering excitedly.

The sound of wings caught his ears, giving short warning of the Nadder landing at the edge of the crowd with a loud Viking on its back – _Astrid!_ – who seemed a model of authority as she waved and yelled at the crowd until it started to disperse. _Nice to see nothing has changed_.

Dreamer barked a greeting at the Nadder Astrid had called Stormfly, who perked up, chattered, and moved closer to trill a reply. The crowd edged closer again, and even Astrid was now too interested to chase them off or maybe even notice.

“I Dreamer!” he announced himself. If he sounded like a giddy fledgling, well, he was definitely giddy, and technically a fledgling.

Stormfly first spoke with her body, saying _safe, healthy, happy, curious, surprised,_ all at once. This must have put Wanderer at ease, as he crept further along the head of the carving to better show himself, and Stormfly hummed and bobbed her head.

“You safe here. Your sire, dam?” she asked. Her voice was sharp and shrill, and she had no forelegs, but amazingly Dreamer was able to pair the sounds and movements with what he and Wanderer used. He couldn’t keep the goofy grin off his face.

Beside him Wanderer crooned _negative_ and Stormfly changed her posture to _sad_ and _sympathy_. “Your sire do much good.” Dreamer was still contemplating that when she spread her wings low in _welcoming_. “Stay! Food! Safe! Good nest!”

Wanderer made a neutral sound that Dreamer assumed to be along the lines of “maybe” or “decide later.” Stormfly bobbed happily, then startled back with a flap when the front door of the house flew open.

Stoick emerged, shouting into the crowd. Dreamer still couldn’t make out the words, but interestingly the tones spoke _confusion_ and _annoyance_ in Dragon. He only had a moment to wonder how much he’d really been talking to Wanderer as a Long-Paw, before almost every other arm in the growing crowd rose to point at him.

Dreamer and Wanderer looked down. Stoick looked up, and got a double serving of innocently curious Night Fury face; big eyes, ears out, and head slightly tilted. The big man’s melting heart was visible in his awed expression, something Dreamer had not seen for… ever.

When he caught sight of Astrid with her hands over her mouth and trying not to gush, Dreamer let his tongue loll out. He was having fun. Then Stoick shook himself out of it and started shooing everyone away, barking _threats_ and _big scary_ into the crowd, though the only actual word Dreamer understood was “–Fishlegs!”

Shortly afterwards they were investigating the dragon arena; it was no firelit longhouse, but it was sheltered and calm. The chain netting had been removed, everything cleaned, and the doors removed, so that what were cages now resembled caves. The dragons would be free to come and go as they pleased, which was very good to see. All but one of the caves were clearly claimed, that being the one that had held the Terror.

Dreamer was a little shy at having an audience as they inspected what was apparently their new den – Astrid and Stoick had both joined Fishlegs in coaxing them to the ring with fish – but Wanderer had no such qualms and was quickly losing his apprehensions. He tackled Dreamer to fight for grooming rights.

Of course, distracted as he was, Dreamer quickly lost and was subjected to the humiliating treatment in front of his friend, his sire– _father_ , and his childhood crush, never mind they had no idea of his identity. If he didn’t look at them, he could pretend they were politely looking away. Well, at the very least he wouldn’t betray his horrified expression.

He tried to protest – through involuntary and embarrassing sounds – at the extra detail partway through a meticulous cleaning of his wing-shoulders, but received several swift bats to the head. It was almost as if–… _Ooooh, you rotten dragon._ He glared at Wanderer and received a fierce and very _toothy_ grin in response.

This meant war.

* * *

Payback was to be expected, and Wanderer was ready for it. He eyed the fish laying on the stone before him; Dreamer had fetched it and was now watching with very suspicious excitement.

Wanderer sniffed at it and, finding nothing out of the ordinary, snapped it up. He was ready for false-jokes too. _Mmmrrr_ , he’d missed fish so much, they felt much better in his belly than all the heavy land-prey they had been eating.

“I get more!” shouted Dreamer a little too eagerly and went to leave.

Wanderer chuffed, “I come.” Dreamer shrugged at him, and they were off.

They glided to one of the strange Long-Paw dens where Dreamer did something to the wall and the mouth of the den opened. Wanderer was waiting for the joke but Dreamer bounded inside, loudly calling out “Fish! Fish!” and bouncing around, so he followed.

He’d never been in a Long-Paw den before. It smelled heavily of many of them and smoke, and all manner of strange things were piled up against – and even hanging on – the walls. Despite the cold outside it was comfortably warm.

Dreamer continued chirping and bouncing around in circles until there was a sound of movement above them. Then everything happened at once. As Wanderer looked up, Dreamer bounced _off him_ and sent him sprawling on the floor, and a _click_ sounded behind him right as a matching sound came from above – the den-mouth closing behind him, and another one opening above him.

A Long-Paw voice spoke _curious_ and _wonder_ , but Wanderer ignored it to growl at the now closed den-mouth. The Long-Paw voice changed to _safe_ and _protect_ as its owner, the large young Long-Paw that he recalled had flown with them in that awful nest-fight, descended a sort of jagged slope. Wanderer realised he’d just played right into Dreamer’s claws, who was laughing so hard outside he could barely claw and bat the den-mouth to feign danger.

_No no no no_ this wasn’t happening! He leapt at the den-mouth to investigate the part that opened it but could make no sense of it. “Dreamer!” he barked but was swiftly scooped into a firm embrace and carried away with reassuring rumblings. He could only watch in horror as another den-mouth closed behind him.

He was placed on a soft raised surface where he sat numbly while the light in the room grew. Okay, _think_. It was unlikely he could communicate enough to explain the situation, but he tried anyway with the predicted result. Hurting the Long-Paw was out of the question except for if he felt threatened, and while he hardly felt safe right now he trusted Dreamer wouldn’t put him in any danger.

When the Long-Paw reached out to him he growled, and the paw withdrew with _understanding_ and _protection_. Grrr, what was it going to take?

A round flat thing was set in front of him and his frills perked up. On it, among some of the plants that the Long-Paws liked to eat, was a whole smoky-smelling fish and a hunk of land-prey on the bone. The smells had Wanderer’s stomach clawing at him. Delicately, he picked up the fish with his teeth and swallowed it whole. The flat-thing wasn’t removed so he picked up the meaty bone and carried it to the hard floor where he wouldn’t lose any scraps, and held it down in his claws to tear off shreds with his teeth.

While he was gnawing off the gristle on the end, the circular thing was offered to him again with a questioning sound. He gave it a sniff and used his tongue to scoop up a few leaves that smelled like they had some flavour, more to humour the Long-Paw than to supplement his diet, and returned to his bone. Infuriatingly it was too strong for him to crack it open for its marrow, but trying put a pleasant pressure to his teeth.

The Long-Paw was studying a thing Wanderer recognised, a small squared object that had many markings on the many surfaces inside it, the same one Dreamer had brought to their cove for every visit. A separate one received some new scribbles, then the Long-Paw was rifling through a bundle of prey-skin. _What now…?_

Bone forgotten, his eyes went wide and glazed over as an impossibly sweet smell hit his nose. Some of that special grass was being offered to him, and he tried to resist it, but when it was spread on the ground in front of him he couldn’t help putting his nose to it. The rest of him followed.

He came to his senses some time later and groggily stumbled away from the blissful patch, but didn’t make it far before he was bundled up again. His head was too foggy to fight it or the gentle pulls and nudges over his body, and the comforting and curious Long-Paw rumbles had never really stopped.

As soon as something touched his neck, however soft, he was instantly alert and darting back onto the soft-ground with a warning growl at the Long-Paw to not overstep the trust it’d earned. _Submission, safe, respect_ the Long-Paw said with sounds and body, and Wanderer let the growl die.

_Curiosity_ he said with his nose as he approached the Long-Paw. He’d never properly interacted with any other than Dreamer, and there were many differences between him and this one. Wanderer sniffed the foreleg proffered to him – it was almost bigger than he was! – and, careful with his claws on the fragile hide, walked onto it.

The foreleg barely flexed at his weight, to his surprise there was only a moderate layer of fat over the surprisingly firm muscle. Wanderer continued up to perch delicately on the shoulder, using his tail to correct his wobbles as the furs under his claws slid back and forth. He prodded the Long-Paw’s cheek with a paw, there was _no way_ its jaws were that strong, but found only soft fat. How very strange, it was like it was camouflaging its strength.

It was only fair after all, and the Long-Paw only voiced a mild surprised complaint when Wanderer stuck his nose in its ear and down the opening in the fur at the back of its neck. Satisfied and now bored, he jumped down and scratched at the den-mouth, staring _pleading_ at the Long-Paw. Surely it wasn’t going to keep him here forever…?

With a noise of acceptance that was only slightly begrudged, he was let out into the den proper, then _finally_ out into the chill night.

For a moment he just beat the air with his wings and felt it streak down his body, revelling having his freedom returned, but then his eyes narrowed and his claws flexed. _That runt will pay for that,_ he thought darkly, scanning the ground and plotting what he hoped would be excruciatingly embarrassing scenarios.

Several long laps of the nest later, on both wing and paw, he slumped in the air. The Long-Paw nest was just too _foreign_ to him to properly understand, Dreamer could be anywhere.

_Bark!_

Or, he could be gliding back to their new den in the strange ledge on the cliff. The timing was too close to Wanderer giving up on the hunt, _crafty Dreamer_ , so he switched his chosen plot for one a little more severe that he’d come up with earlier.

Wanderer swooped in behind him, only just now recognising the rock-hole; the same place he’d blasted into to save his Dreamer from a Firescale. That must have been a whole cycle ago now, though it didn’t feel it, time seemed to move slower in this little body.

As he landed, Dreamer chirped happily from their den, lounging on one of many boulders that had been scattered around. Wanderer approved, it gave them a measure of shelter in the otherwise open den, but for now he had other priorities.

He would not disrespect the joke by brushing it off; he had to admit it had been clever. As he approached, he let the broadly grinning Dreamer know every mote of his antipathy in a fierce glare.

“How was?” Dreamer asked casually. He sniggered when Wanderer’s only response was to silently finish his approach and sit slowly in front of him, maintaining the glare. “You not seem much bad, you fed, –“ he warbled and his eyes widened, dropping from the rock he padded closer, “smell _very good_ …”

Dreamer purred loudly and made to rub himself against Wanderer – _rrmm, the sweet-grass_ – but got shoved away, looking dejected.

“Y–… Yes. Rrmm, need know. What word for when hatchling small? More small than others in nest.”

Wanderer winced, recalling his earlier thought, then muttered, “Runt.”

Dreamer nodded. “That my Long-Paw name.”

Wings and tail audibly slapped the ground in Wanderer’s disbelief and shock, and Dreamer continued.

“Sort of. Word for… strange backward cough Long-Paws do. But name mean runt.” He nodded again, then _finally_ had the decency to look abashed about it.

Wanderer was completely and utterly speechless. Could Long-Paws not take a new name? What had his sire and dam been _thinking_? Well, not a lot at all when it came to his sire, that much had been quite clear long ago…

“I tell you, we even. No jokes while nest new.” Dreamer held out a paw.

Wanderer picked himself off the ground and straightened, but wasn’t sure what to do with the paw. He huffed, this must be a strange Long-Paw ritual, and instead chose to shake his head and declare “Truce.”

“Truce,” Dreamer repeated, then took a step forward. “Why sad?” Wanderer suddenly couldn’t look at him, the guilt building in his heart. He’d hoped the initial shock had masked it, but… “What, because I still runt?”

Wanderer lowered himself to the ground and _forced_ himself to look at Dreamer. He shouldn’t hide from this. Dreamer sighed and looked at the sky-sparks above. “I runt Long-Paw, I runt Nightstriker. Not care.”

“My fault,” Wanderer gasped. “It my fault. Nightstriker not make new life, new seed, without mate. We are same body.”

Looking back at him, Dreamers eyes widened a little in understanding. “This…” he gestured to himself, “Wanderer body?”

“Yes.” Wanderer could practically read the question on him. “You smaller because… I not find enough food… when you hatchling.” He lowered his nose to the ground, looking up at Dreamer to beg forgiveness. “I gave some, but still needed hunt, needed strength. I got strong, you…”

“No sire, no dam…” Dreamer’s eyes were flicking around, it was just like those days when refining the not-tail-fin after they crashed. He would always come back with a better not-fin afterwards.

Then the breath left Wanderer’s chest as Dreamer crashed into him, purring _love, happy, friend-mate,_ and _grateful._ “No thing for forgive. But,” he stepped back and narrowed his eyes, “you say I weak?”

“No!” Wanderer scratched and barked hurriedly, bouncing upright.

Dreamer laughed and made to lick him, but Wanderer suddenly remembered the sweet-grass and pulled back. “Eat sweet-grass not good for fledglings.”

“Sweet-grass?” Dreamer purred, rubbing himself against Wanderer, then his ears perked. “Grass in field we crash into!” He made to take off, but Wanderer threw a wing in front of him.

“ _Dangerous_. Not think straight when smell sweet-grass.” With a tease and a smirk, he added “Ask that Long-Paw for some.”

Dreamer hunched a little. “You think… I should tell them? Tell them… _me_?”

Tensing, Wanderer looked at Dreamer in alarm, but then drooped. “I not know them. I starve you because I not trust them. I trust you.” This didn’t seem to be the answer Dreamer wanted to hear, so he added, “What _you_ think when you know?”

It was Dreamer’s turn to stiffen in alarm, and Wanderer looked at him pointedly until he nodded slowly. “Not tell them…”

_Now he’s all gloomy again_ , Wanderer sighed to himself. _Wwrr, just this once…_ He sidled up and brushed his cheek, where the sweet-grass had rubbed most, against Dreamer’s nose, smirking at seeing his eyes glaze over. Its effect was somewhat weaker like this, but the warmth of his body made the smell much stronger.

He stopped pushing the effect back and let it soothe his own mind, and they rolled around happily in the deserted ring.

* * *

Stoick managed a brisk walk to the kill-ring-turned-stables, though he had to stop himself from jogging a few times.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was so captivated by the little dragons, he looked at the others seeing only pets and tools, but these little shadows were… catching somewhere in his chest. Maybe… maybe this was his way of keeping his son’s memory, his legacy, alive. Maybe this was Odin sending him a sign to let go of the past.

Thus he found himself, for the first time since spring, strolling in the pre-dawn light. A bucket of fish hung from his hand, with a whole year free of dragon attacks they found themselves with almost more food than they knew what to do with, even while – now properly – feeding four active and hungry dragons.

He was a little startled when he entered the ring to find boulders, some the size of sheep, strewn through the Night Fury stable. Where had they come from? More importantly, they blocked his view of the stable, were the little Night Furies even in there?

Each step toward the dark alcove was less certain than the last, an internal struggle trying to hold him back. As he crossed the centre of the ring it won him over with the simple argument that these were _wild_ dragons, it would be all too easy to scare them away by just invading their space. Deciding to wait until the sun fully breached the horizon, he turned back to the entrance – and froze. Four green eyes were staring at him from the shadows.

He could hear sounds from the darkness, but they weren’t directed at him. _At each other?_ No, that couldn’t be right.

Stoick did the most non-aggressive thing he could think of, and sat down. With a high, quiet trill one of them stalked from the shadows, and the second larger one followed. He now recognised the smaller one as the one he’d housed for that night, seeing the light scabbing on its forehead, and it happily bounded up to and around him before pinching a fish from the bucket, but the second one had stopped and was giving a low warning growl.

What was he doing wrong? He tried racking his brain for an answer but was distracted by the smaller one nudging his hand. It looked him in the eye then at his head. _My head…?_ He brought his hand up and felt his helmet – sudden recollections of Hiccup’s display with the Monstrous Nightmare in this very ring came to mind, and he snatched it off and sent it sliding away; though not nearly as offensively as Hiccup had done.

This apparently wasn’t enough, and the little one was now staring at his waist. _My knife!?_ How did they even know about that? Stoick had forgotten about it himself. It struck him as unfair that they could keep their teeth and claws while he couldn’t even have a little knife, but he calmly undid his coat enough to reach in and pull the knife free. The growling intensified a little until he tossed it aside.

The larger one calmed instantly, going back to a cute baby dragon, though it looked towards the smaller dragon and grumbled. The little one burbled back, and received a snort. _No, they couldn’t possibly be talking…_

Stoick took a fish from the bucket, shooing away the smaller one, and tossed it across the arena. His aim was a little off from being sat on his bum but the dragon leaped forward to catch it and swallowed it whole. Alternating tossing a fish between the two, he counted down until he had two left, which he held out to be taken. The smaller one did so eagerly, the larger one more warily.

In the early morning light, this was the first good look Stoick had got at either. They must be siblings, one older than the other, and were true to Toothless’ form; lean and sleek with flat heads and matte near-black scales. Though they currently lacked size he knew they would grow to be fearsome and deadly beasts, and the Chief in him was ecstatic at having that power nest here on Berk.

The younger one stepped onto Stoick’s leg and allowed him to pet it, purring and moving to put his hand on its favourite spots. Its scales were smooth but surprisingly soft, almost leathery. He was almost convinced it _was_ leather, it was hard to tell with his calloused hands, but whoever heard of a dragon without scales? Save Gobber and his crazy stories, of course.

He held out a hand to the older one, but it only sniffed and bumped it with its snout. The smaller one grumbled and the two had what could only be described as a conversation, though Stoick wasn’t prepared to accept they had actual _language_ just yet.

That was, right up until the bigger one cringed, then looked into Stoick’s eyes with a calculating stare that bored straight through him. All doubts fled his mind. Whatever he thought of the other beasts, these dragons were undoubtedly highly intelligent. More intelligent than half the village, maybe more so than Stoick himself. Perhaps, almost as intelligent as…

“Oh Hiccup…” he whispered. “’Saw yourself’ indeed. I’m… so sorry…” He bowed his head, not bothering to wipe his face, and was a little startled when he felt a leathery head under his sagging hand.

Then he was sat with a tiny Night Fury draped over each leg, both purring as he stroked them; a surreal experience. That was how he was found by Fishlegs, who announced himself by dropping the bucket he’d been cradling. It hit the stone ground with the expected crash, spilling fish and startling the two Furies to their feet.

The older one chittered to the younger and yawned widely, then they both disappeared between the rocks in their stable.

“Oh of course, they’re nocturnal! I’m such an _idiot_ ,” Fishlegs exclaimed to himself, oblivious to the glare he was getting. He picked up the bucket of fish, and Stoick left it by the Night Fury stable then retrieved his helmet and knife. As they walked back towards the village Stoick found himself almost interested in the conversation with Fishlegs, though the boy pouted when he waved off the request to recount the events in more detail.

“And they knew you had a knife under your coat?” Fishlegs asked.

“Aye, I’d forgotten about it myself. I’m not sure I _want_ to know.”

“Actually, it was probably their acute sense of smell. Metal has a smell, we just don’t notice it outside of the forge. Heh, you know Hiccup had almost the exact same experience?” Fishlegs cringed, but instead of his usual mood swings at mention of the _H_ word Stoick found himself just looking at the boy in surprise. “Uh, yeah, in his journal he said Toothless knew about his belt knife, though it was hidden under his coat. The smell thing was his theory. Oh Thor, we are just so _lucky_ he left such detailed notes! They’ll be even more helpful with these new additions. In fact, I’m going to read over them all again today.”

“Alright. Don’t worry about bringing them fish tomorrow, I’ll get it.”

Fishlegs gave him a sidelong look, as far as their height difference allowed. “Sir, if you want them to like you, I’ve got something _much_ better…”

* * *

Dreamer groaned as the veil of sleep lifted, then untangled from the stirring Wanderer and gave himself a shake. He glanced at the stone pit outside their little boulder-den, and tentatively asked the dreaded question. “How bad was it?”

Wanderer just snickered. That wasn’t a good sign. He remembered clearly right up until he’d shoved his face into the fat wad of grass his sire had offered him, but everything after that was hazy. He’d had his belly in the air a lot… _Oh man did I really chew his fingers…_ All topped off by Wanderer dragging him – still on his back – into the den, where he didn’t so much fall asleep as pass out.

_Wellp, living here has been nice while it lasted_. He rubbed his forehead into the nearest rock, hoping to grind the memories to powder.

Wanderer nudged him on the way past, then pranced in front of him. “Fly!”

That sounded like an excellent idea to help take his mind off things, and they disappeared into the dark sky. He followed Wanderer, easily able to make him out this close in the light of the sky-sparks twinkling above. They ascended into a near vertical climb, Dreamer copying and learning Wanderer’s movements and how he cupped the air with his wings. Up and up they went, long past the point Dreamer’s wings started aching from exertion.

When his burning wings could climb no further he barked wearily at Wanderer, and together they gracefully leaned back and arced into a dive. Berk tilted into view far below them, though they weren’t nearly as high as they’d gone when he’d flown on Wanderer. It was still exhilarating to be held up so high by nothing other than flesh and muscle, especially now that it was his own.

Below, the green torches dotting Berk were more than enough light to see by, and even at this distance he could make out the wood panels of the buildings. He heard Wanderer’s whistle build, drowning out his own struggling rasp, though it was still shrill and nothing like the chilling screech of an adult Nightstriker. _Yeah, still weird to think I’ll do that one day_.

The sound was letting him know exactly where Wanderer was, Dreamer could follow him with his eyes closed – and did, for a short time, just for the fun of it. Perhaps that was the reason for it, to stop Furies crashing into each other while flying at high speeds in the dark. _Which would mean…_ Night Furies weren’t solo creatures! It was so obvious now, Toothless had been desperate for companionship, even in a nest full of other dragons.

Dreamer had so many questions for when they landed.

For now, Berk were getting close. Dreamer slid over into Wanderer’s slipstream for a bit of extra speed to pull up next to him, and they looked into each other’s eye with _glee_.

This was of course no time for challenges or daring; failing to pull up would result in certain death, and Dreamer was nowhere near comfortable with his limits for that kind of game. They did pull up close enough that several villagers still wandering the streets ducked reflexively and exclaimed at the sound.

As they reached the docks, a flick of their tails had them soaring back up towards the sky-sparks above. Here, in _both_ of his elements – darkness for the Nightstriker, and home for the Viking – he let out a happy shout that was echoed by Wanderer. Freefalling up was still the best.

Much later, when they alighted with heaving chests on a ridge near the peak of Berk’s spire, the questions started burning again in Dreamer’s mind. He was barely able to wait to catch his breath. “Where Wanderer from?”

“South, where it warmer and long-days not so long.” Wanderer shivered and added “This not good place for Nightstrikers. Too much light, then too much cold.”

“No Nightstrikers here? Just us?” Wanderer shook a _yes_. “Why you here?”

“Needed get away from nest… Not my choice, I… too young, barely fireling. Flew far, to these cold small-lands.”

“Where you find… big-big-wing-hunter-thing.”

“Yes. I find that _queen_ , not have want to break free. I too young, think maybe more Nightstrikers follow. In egg-season, when old enough for want, I roamed, but always go back. Thought was best chance. Now I think I wrong.” He gave Dreamer an inscrutable look. “Now I have friend. One night, when we old enough, we fly south.”

“This my home!” Dreamer cried worriedly. “No can leave!”

“ _Stupid_ ,” Wanderer snorted _._ “Say again in four warm-seasons, when you get fire. All firelings want leave nest.”

Dreamer gaped at him. _Four years!?_ They would be almost defenceless until then. He stopped and chastised himself for the very dragon thought, they wouldn’t need to fight for food or den here. _Besides, we have teeth and claws…_

“Before ninth cold-season you start–“ and Dreamer went very still at the word Wanderer said with a double motion of his hindquarters. Apparently misinterpreting his blank expression, he went on to clarify, “Interest in–“

“YES I get,” Dreamer hurriedly cut him off. It wasn’t like he could court Astrid like this, but the thought of courting a dragon? Nope, nope, nope. _Say again in eight warm-seasons,_ echoed Wanderer’s voice in the back of his head. Nope nope nope _nope_.

They sat in silence for a time, splaying out their wings to rest them. Dreamer’s thoughts were wandering when there was a nudge on his chin. “Why you sad?”

Oh. He hadn’t even realised he was moping. “Just thinking… Want be in Long-Paw nest, but we sleep at light, they sleep at night.”

Wanderer snorted again. “ _Stupid_. We just sleep at night.”

Dreamer resisted the urge to hit his head on the rock. Barely.

* * *

Fishlegs had only ever seen this trick done once on the Terrible Terror, which had flown off the moment they released it, but Hiccup’s detailed notes and _amazing_ illustrations definitely reported its effect on the Night Fury. Stifling a giggle, he tilted the polished coin to wave its reflection around the training ring and watched the young Night Fury scrabble after it. The smaller one watched from the side, tail intermittently waving in the air and chortling as the bigger one tried to take turns too quickly and fell over himself.

_“_ Ooh, you think that’s funny do you?” Fishlegs mumbled and surreptitiously moved the dot closer. With a devious flick he had him looking the other direction while the bigger one pounced at the dot on his back.

Stoick allowed a short chuckle next to him, but while it had been very funny Fishlegs was more interested in the little altercation between them that followed. “I think you’re right Chief, those little guys are definitely talking to each other. Ooooh isn’t this exciting? I wonder if _all_ the dragons can talk, though we’ve never observed _anything_ like this…” The little Fury was glaring at him now.

“Tell you what… I need to get going, but I’ll get Astrid and Stormfly. We should really introduce the other dragons and let them back into their stables.”

Fishlegs nodded, but his attention was still mostly on the Furies who were now chasing each other. “Huh, you know what, I think the smaller one is a hiccup.”

Stoick, who had just turned to leave, rounded on him. “Come again?” he growled.

“Well I mean look at them, everything other than their size puts them at the same level of development, they’ve _gotta_ be the same age. And we _do_ need names for them, can’t keep calling them ‘big Fury’ and ‘little Fury’.”

Stoick calmed with a sigh. “Alright then, I’ll think about it.”

Astrid glided in a short time later and, after briefly conferring with Fishlegs, removed Stormfly’s harness and walked her through the gate. Fishlegs followed; it was unlikely there would be any problems – especially given the reports of their first meeting – but it often paid to be careful.

“What are you gonna call them?” Astrid asked casually, watching Stormfly croon and nuzzle the little dragons. When it had been absolutely clear there was no need for worry, they’d taken a seat on a bench at the edge of the ring.

“Stoick’s thinking about it, but I think we should name the little one Hiccup.” He tried not to shy away from the storm suddenly brewing beside him. “Well, he _is_ one, I’m positive these two are the same age. And, not the worst way to be remembered, having the one of the rarest, most _lethal_ and _fearsome_ dragons named after you.”

Astrid huffed. “You’ve seen his notes and drawings more than anyone, Toothless was an overgrown puppy. Well, except when I threw Hiccup to the ground and dropped my axe on him, then it was like a _fire-breathing_ _bear_ and I was attacking its cub. Thor, what was _wrong_ with me?”

Fishlegs felt it wisest to not comment on that. They watched the two Night Furies run back to their stable, jump on and around the boulders, then run back to Stormfly and nuzzle her. “Oh, you had Stormfly fill their stable with boulders? We were trying to work out how they got there. What made you do that?”

“Uhhh, _why_ would I do that? You’re the dragon expert. Wait, _Stormfly_ did it?”

“Hmm…” Fishlegs carefully edged his way to the mouth of the stable to examine the nearest rock, then made his way back and dropped back onto the bench. “The claw marks are definitely that of a Nadder, and I’m pretty sure they were just thanking her.”

“You don’t think… _they_ asked her!?” Astrid exclaimed incredulously. “But–…”

“I know! Isn’t it exciting!? To think dragons might actually have a language, and can–…” He turned to stare deadpan at her. “I’m going to learn it.”

She laughed. “You _would_. Well if anyone can, it’s you Fishlegs. Well… you and…”

Fishlegs pulled her into a quick platonic hug. “Yeah, him too, I know. We _all_ miss him, Astrid. Even Snotlout and the twins. Hey, speaking of, how did you keep them away? I expected them days ago.”

“Oh, I just pointed out to everyone _else_ what might happen if any of those three made it here. Not everyone is a dragon lover, but enough are eager for a Night Fury like their beloved hero.” She cracked a rare smile. “I think someone convinced Snotlout to take Hookfang and fend for himself for a few days as some bogus rite of passage. Gobber gave the twins an old map…”

The conversation died as the smaller Night Fury made his way towards them, curiosity on his face. “ _Axe,_ ” Fishlegs whispered at Astrid and she quickly disarmed. This seemed to please the little Fury and he bounded over, indeed looking every bit a puppy.

Astrid held her hand down for him to sniff, then invited him up to the bench next to her. “Aww, aren’t you just the _cutest_ _little thing?_ ” she babied, scratching behind his ears while he made happy noises.

Fishlegs was taken for a moment too, before remembering his commitment and fumbling for his notebook. Skipping ahead to a new section he started taking notes, just whatever he could write down at this point, he’d sort it out later.

“Yeck! No kisses!” Astrid laughed, wiping slobber from her face and trying to hold the licky dragon away. He gave up and stepped into her lap, heedless of the spikes, and tried to stick his nose into Fishlegs’ book.

“Hey, I’m–… You know what…” Fishlegs flipped back to one of the sketches of Toothless he’d copied from Hiccup’s journal.

Big green eyes lit up in recognition as he studied the drawing. “This dragon’s name was Toothless,” he told the fledgling, “he lost a good friend, we all did, but he took it the worst. He disappeared near the end of Winter. Given the timing, I’d bet he’s your father, but if you’re here and he’s not… He wasn’t in the best shape when he left…”

The little dragon warbled at him, so Fishlegs scratched him under the chin. “Maybe I’m wrong and he’ll come back. I hope I’m wrong.”

“You realise it can’t understand you, right?” Astrid scratched between the Fury’s wings and grinned as he stretched out across the both of them.

“ _He_ might not understand the words, but animals imprint to voices, and I’m beginning to suspect a lot of their language is based on tone–“ Fishlegs jumped and _nearly_ stifled a scream as a black shape appeared over his other leg, causing both dragons to jump back and Astrid to hiss in pain. “Sorry little guys,” he said softly, “didn’t see you sneaking up like that, where did you even come from?”

Astrid was holding her side, and the dragon on her lap stepped off and held his head low, looking up at her with big dilated eyes. Fumbling again at his notebook, Fishlegs got back to the right page and hastily scribbled a crude drawing, though his sight was quickly blocked by Stormfly checking over Astrid for the source of her distress. Thankfully just a light scratch.

There was soon more to scribble down though as Stormfly turned to the little Night Fury and made chittering and tutting sounds. Fishlegs had _so many_ questions, foremost being how the two species understood each other with such different ‘voices’, but however daunting the task seemed now he was determined to answer them all.

* * *

“Alright guys, meet Toothy and Hiccup.” Astrid calmly moved ahead to greet the Night Furies and put them at ease before letting everyone crowd around.

“Hiccup!?” exclaimed Snotlout.

“Toothy?” questioned Ruffnut at the same time.

“Aye, Toothy,” Stoick rumbled, talking over Fishlegs’ mild and resigned protests. “Needed to set the record straight, after all.” He was clearly very proud of the name he’d come up with. It was amazing, looking at the change in him over the last week, his eyes looked _alive_ , and to Astrid it was obvious he was eating and sleeping much better. She knew her sudden tutelage had been as much to establish succession as it was to allow him time and space to grieve, but until now it was like it hadn’t been really helping. _Gee, I wonder what brought this on_ , she thought with a warm smile.

“And yes, Hiccup,” Fishlegs explained matter-of-factly, “they are actually the same age, it’s _obvious_ by their level of development.” He grinned sideways at Ruffnut as if this was the most obvious thing on Midgard, but lost his composure at the estranged look she gave him back. “Uh, yeah, anyway he’s a hiccup,” he finished lamely.

“I like it!” announced Tuffnut loudly. “It’s bold, it’s subtle, it’s a TRIBUTE to our fallen hero! Also, maybe, a little on the nose, wait, dragons don’t have noses, a little on the snout? Anyway, what were we talking about again?”

“I dunno,” Ruffnut cooed softly, “but these guys are _adorable…!_ Come ‘ere, little guy…”

Having been sat down by Fishlegs, who stood off to the side, the three were approached warily but curiously by Hiccup and Toothy. Astrid watched the Furies’ long tails sweep across the ground, suddenly struck by how much they were trusting her to turn their backs. She was the Chief’s aide and successor, and – mostly – had the respect and trust of the village, but this felt somehow deeper, more primal.

Toothy went to Tuffnut and they started playing, while Hiccup received scritches and rubs from Ruffnut. Snotlout folded his arms and grumbled for a moment, but then contented himself by sidling up to Ruffnut to dote over Hiccup as well.

“Hey Chief?” Tuffnut called back to Stoick, who was just turning to leave. “You said his name was Toothy?”

“What of it?”

“Yeah, gonna have to disagree with you there…” he said slowly. As he stood up, bringing Toothy with him, Astrid saw what he was talking about. She could only sit there with her mouth open while he turned around to show Stoick the dragon playfully _gumming_ his arm.

Stoick’s expression was _priceless_.

* * *

Dreamer sat on one of the many cliffs in the village proper, ignoring the pre-dawn chill biting through his scales.

_A year ago._ It was exactly a year ago, close to the minute, that he’d stood in this very spot and fired that bola that changed everything, that somehow resulted in all that had happened. He knew it was now because Fishlegs had told him before coaxing him and Wanderer into the Great Hall at the start of the night for a recount of Hiccup’s Saga. The promise of a feast had been too tempting for either Night Fury to resist, and they’d stuffed themselves silly with all manner of meats.

What Dreamer had been able to make out had all been surprisingly accurate, pieced together from his journal and by the efforts of the teens and every Skald on Berk. Thankfully he’d not documented their first real flight in much detail, so that _particular_ misadventure was only mentioned in passing to lead up to his epiphany with the Terrors. He had only been made the fool once or twice, his deeds had otherwise been recalled in great esteem. Even eating the raw regurgitated fish, though he regretted recording that nonetheless.

The brief mention of the anguish faced by both Stoick and Toothless, what Hiccup had not lived through, had been heart-breaking, but he had succeeded in his plight. The dragon raids completely stopped and, with Astrid stepping up as an impromptu Chief-in-training, the island had prospered. All the dragons at the nest were liberated, and Hiccup himself had spent near three seasons living as a Night Fury, now back in his village unbeknownst to everyone.

All the result of a chance shot into the dark. _With my eyes closed,_ he remembered wryly.

Footsteps brought him out of his reverie, and he warbled a greeting at his father before he was stepped on.

“Toothy? …Hiccup?”

He gave a low bark at his name; weren’t the gods in _fits_ about _that_ , it had followed him even after he’d shed it. The whole series of events felt like a big joke by Loki. Would he wake up tomorrow as a Viking boy again? And wouldn’t that be the cream on the cake.

…That was it wasn’t it? He was so accepting of this form because he was far happier now as Hiccup the Night Fury than he’d ever been as Hiccup the Useless. His father wasn’t constantly setting impossible expectations and getting disappointed when he failed to meet them, he wasn’t the butt of every joke, and people actually _wanted_ him around, to say nothing of his inconceivably deep friendship with Wanderer.

Despite everything anyone had done to him however, he could only be angry at himself, at his old self, while simultaneously knowing that doing anything different would not have resulted in the peace they now had.

It made him want to scream out over the ocean.

“He tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen.” The solemn voice made him jump a little, he’d forgotten his father had sat down next to him. The quiet, level tone was surprisingly easy to understand in the open air, and his father was speaking slowly, though Dreamer supposed his familiarity with the voice played a part. “He used one of his contraptions, from right there, to do what no one else could do in over three hundred years.

“I _never_ listened. All I had to do was hear him _once_ , and he’d still be here.” There was a great sniffle and a long silence. “It’s selfish. We would have killed that Night Fury, or never forced it to reveal itself. We’d still be getting raided, but he’d still be _here_.

“Of course, he’s in Valhalla now, feasting with Thor himself. I should be happy for him. I just… Listening to his saga, that dragon probably knew him better than the rest of us put together. What if Toothless couldn’t follow him? Odin wouldn’t separate them, would he? And Hiccup never was much like a Viking, what if he doesn’t even _like_ Valhalla? What if they won’t take him to the great forges of Svartalfheim, where he would truly be happy?”

_Oh, so_ now _he cares,_ Dreamer thought bitterly, but couldn’t muster any real feeling behind it. All he saw was a father, grieving the loss of his son and the last of his immediate family, and a man with the same conundrum as he; even if he _could_ change anything, _should_ he?

Despite the lack of light and writing material, it felt it would be so easy to just reach out and draw the runes. Tell his father he was happy and healthy, not to worry, and that he loved him.

_Dark dragon magic_ … No, he couldn’t. There was no way to know how he’d react, even with this newfound empathy. Dreamer wasn’t sure Stoick would ever be able to accept his son even was a dragon, let alone accept him _as_ one. He might; he might also exile him out of fear, or take wild and drastic measures trying to change him back. It simply wasn’t worth the risk, for either of them.

So Dreamer stood up to look his father in the eye – he had to stand on the giant man’s knee – and crooned softly, trying to put all his reassurance and love into that stare, mere paw-lengths from his face.

The air audibly left the man’s chest, and then Hiccup was gently pulled into a firm embrace as his father simultaneously laughed and wept. All Hiccup could think was that he was _finally_ making a connection with his dad in the best way possible, like they’d done in his early memories, and he purred that happiness into the thick beard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing several scenes in this chapter, particularly the one in the cove and the one at the end =P
> 
> Speaking of, Hiccup's decision not to tell anyone, particularly his father, is one of the many little things I wanted to see that gave me the inspiration to write this. However, let me be clear in that his decision here is heavily influenced by having time to consider that choice and by talking it over first. In other fics he does not get that luxury, in which case it would be completely in character to announce himself to the nearest person.
> 
> So yes, while that is a bit of a cheeky nod at Brothers of Night in the last scene, I consider the difference a product of circumstance.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think ^_^


	4. Maelstrom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments so far, particularly some on FFN have been very helpful and inspiring, and it's very fun to read your thoughts on the story as it progresses =)

“I know, I’ll miss you too. Don’t talk to any strange dragons, and have fun doing whatever it is you guys do out there...” Tuffnut grinned and wrapped his arms around Belch’s head, suddenly pressed to his chest as it was, then watched as the dragon took wing to join the flock passing Berk some way out to sea.

“Where do you suppose they go?” Ruffnut wondered next to him.

Tuffnut put his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “I’m thinking some place warm, with lots of fish. Maybe some hot tubs, a nice salon, fresh drinks. Gotta beat hanging around here when the storms hit.”

“Cheh, you got that right. So, what, we got about a week before then?”

“Well, if my hypothesis is correct, and it is, we can estimate the start of the storms based on the dragons depature. Last year, they were six days apart…”

Ruffnut punched him. “You’re so _dumb_ when you try sounding smart.”

“Hey, leave me alone. I’m sad, alright? I’m stuck with _you_ for three months and no Belch to take the edge off.”

“Moron.”

“Yak breath!”

“Toad slime!”

“Enough, you two!” Astrid appeared behind them to knock their helmeted heads together hard enough that Tuffnut saw stars. Woah, that was a good one, he’d have to remember she had a good arm for that when he was next in the mood for a good clobbering. Still staggering, he noticed four… no, two figures watching the flock from one of the cliffs overlooking the ocean. “Uh, the Furies not going too?” The world tilted the wrong way and he fell over. That had been a _really_ good head-knocking. She must be upset about Stormfly, normally she held back more than that.

“Huh, guess not,” Fishlegs said mildly, with an undertone of sadness but a touch of excitement. Hah, if he thought the Furies were going to lick his feet he had another thing coming. Besides, Meatlug’s tongue was bone dry, but Night Fury saliva was a gift from Loki himself. Now if only they could figure out how to get a jar of it…

“Hooookfaaaaang!” The desperate cry was followed by an equally desperate Viking bolting down the village on stubby little legs. Stumbling to a halt next to Astrid, Snotlout wheezily leaned on his knees. “Did… did I miss him?”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “You idiot, we told you this would be happening soon. They’re gone.” Yeah, she was definitely upset.

Snotlout groaned, laced with a bit of a growl. “It’s not my fault! Dad _insisted_ I train with him in the forest, and he does _not_ take no for an answer!”

Tuffnut smirked as he climbed to his feet. “Since when do _you_ listen to authority? I mean, what’s he going to do, take Hookfang away?” Snotlout _did_ growl at that, he was always so much fun to tease even if he made it too easy.

“ _Please_ tell me he at least wasn’t wearing his saddle…” Astrid’s demeanour said Snotlout would be _rowing_ after the flock if he was.

“Uh, yeah, I’m not an _idiot_. I made sure to remove it after every flight.”

Ruffnut scoffed. “What are you even worried about? He’d just claw it off anyway, isn’t this his third saddle or something?”

“ _Fourth_ , if I recall correctly,” Tuffnut mused. “Hey, remember what Gobber said he’d do to you if you lost another one? Oh man, I’d trade my favourite mace to see that.” Snotlout’s paled expression said he did indeed remember, and to be fair to him he hadn’t lost a saddle in the five months since.

The silence stretched out.

“…Sooo… Now what…”

Hmm, Ruffnut had a point. With a whole year of dragon-aided pranks behind them, going back to regular pranks felt kind of lame. Like having to sail somewhere after flying on dragon back. Man, everything was just better with dragons. “Hey, let’s play with the Furies. Help take our minds off how much winter sucks.”

“Unlike you guys I actually have things to do.” Astrid crossed her arms and stood in her ‘look how important I am’ pose. “Just, don’t crowd them, okay? Fishlegs, keep an eye on them will you?”

“It’s fine,” Tuffnut waved her off, “look, see? Toothy! Hiccy!” He crouched low, tapped his knees and bounced on the spot. “You wanna play? You wanna play?”

Toothy and Hiccup swivelled to look at him, then their frills perked out and they dropped into playful stances before running into and around the four dragon-less dragon riders. Tuffnut, still crouched low, reared at the Furies and they stopped bounding around to rear back at him, flaring their wings and growling playfully.

Hiccup darted forward and nipped at his ankle, then repeated for the others. “Ohh, you want to play hide-and-seek do ya? Do ya?” Tuffnut dropped to his hands and knees, bouncing from side to side to mimic Toothy. Hiccup bounded around in a tight circle with a goofy smile on his face, waving his paws in the air between bounces.

“You have way too much energy, you know that?” Astrid rolled her eyes and started to head off.

Tuffnut just grinned at Toothy. “Come on guys, just one game! Ready, go!” He leapt to his feet and grabbed Ruffnut to flee the scene, after several long bounds he glanced over his shoulder to see Fishlegs furtively looking for somewhere to hide and Snotlout overcoming his hesitation to take off at a sprint. The two Furies were laying down and waiting patiently – giving them a head start? _Heh, they’ll regret that._ Tuffnut ran with his partner in crime, sharing a look with her that said everything they needed to say.

After a minute had passed, a roar was heard through the village signalling the start of the chase, and the game was on. Fishlegs was the first to go down, being predictably terrible at hiding, and had easily been tracked to behind a nearby building. He screamed as two growling Night Furies tackled him and knocked off his helmet. That set the precedent.

Next to go down was Snotlout, Toothy and Hiccup tracking him at a phenomenal speed and catching up before he could even escape to the main island. He tried to fight back, but was far too slow for the blur that shot around him and up his back to steal his helmet. Toothy laughed as he ran off with his prize in his mouth.

They found Astrid next, though true to her word she wasn’t playing and was instead shadowing Stoick, but she congratulated the grumbling dragons for finding her anyway.

Last to go down were the twins. The Furies, tailed by a helmetless Fishlegs and Snotlout, sniffed the bridge to confirm they hadn’t left the island, then prowled the paths looking for a scent. It didn’t take long to find one. Tuffnut watched with his sister as the pair jogged along after it, then cackled quietly at the confused looks when it traced back to the starting point… and a second time… and a third time…

“I still think we should have gone for the chamber pot,” Ruffnut whispered.

“Hey, we _like_ these dragons,” Tuffnut whispered back. “Besides, they could follow us to Valhalla with _that_ smell on our feet.” He readjusted his stolen boots, they were a bit big but did the job.

“Oooh, that had to hurt,” Ruffnut said through a maniacal grin. From the roof of the forge they had a good view of where they’d left their own boots which had just been discovered, and Hiccup had stuck his nose in one. He was now rubbing at his face and rolling around while Toothy laughed at him, and only years of watching pranks unfold from hiding kept Tuffnut from joining in. Eventually, after Hiccup staggered to his feet, they started moving again – “Wait, isn’t that the path _we_ took from there?”

“…Uh oh. You’re right sis. They’re onto us. Time for phase two…”

“What’s phase two?”

“Hel if I know. Let’s just make it up as we go along.” They butted heads – not too loudly – and when Furies caught up all they found were two pairs of stolen shoes.

As the afternoon wore on they had to come up with increasingly complex means of tangling up the their pursuers, until Ruffnut pointed out this wasn’t hide-and-seek. It was a _hunt_ , and there were no rules in a hunt. Not that they cared much for rules anyway…

It was Ruffnut’s plan so she was holding the string they’d rigged up, crouched behind a crate and waiting for the dragons to pass through the street. However, instead of walking into the trap, Toothy and Hiccup paused directly in front of it. “Hah, it’s almost like they’re talking,” Tuffnut whispered.

“Don’t be stupid, dragons can’t talk,” Ruffnut whispered back. “What are they waiting for?” For bait they’d taken off their boots – stolen – and walked barefoot in a circle before donning different pairs of boots – also stolen – that they’d been carrying, but Toothy and Hiccup didn’t seem to be falling for it.

And then… they did, and Ruffnut wasted no time in yanking on the string to tip the nearby cartload of apples onto them – a pained cry echoed between the buildings, followed by pitiful and hurt yowls.

“This is your fault!” Tuffnut hissed at his sister as he ducked behind the crate. “It was your idea!”

“What!? It was just a couple of dumb apples!” she hissed back, also dropping low.

They slowly rose again to peer from their hiding place, seeing Fishlegs still searching and Snotlout cradling Toothy – a wing hung limply from his side, and he was whining pitifully. “Oh no, Toothy…” Ruffnut cooed sadly. They could only stare in silence. And then continue staring, because with a _whoosh_ their helmets were swiftly removed by Hiccup gliding over them from behind. He dropped them by Toothy, who stopped whining, folded his wing, and hopped free of a very confused Snotlout.

“Uhh… Bro?”

“Yeah sis?”

“I think we just got Loki’d.”

“That we did.”

“By a couple of dragons.”

“Yep.”

“And you’re cool with this!?”

“Are you kidding me? That was _awesome!_ ” His sister didn’t like being on the receiving end of pranks, but Tuffnut had a newfound respect for the Night Furies. He kicked off the last pair of stolen boots and strode over to properly congratulate them.

* * *

“I think I like that Long-Paw…”

Dreamer could only murmur his assent as Wanderer shuffled a little closer under the thick – and only slightly smelly – bear pelt. With the cold-season approaching the air carried an icy bite, and to absolutely everyone’s astonishment it had been Tuffnut to point out that their small bodies were built more for speed and less for insulation. Well, not so much ‘point out’ as ‘violently berate Fishlegs in the middle of the village’ but nonetheless Dreamer was very grateful.

The surprises continued as Tuffnut adopted a sort of guardian role, ensuring they were properly fed, played with, interacted with people but not too much, had bones and rope to chew and play with, and this night he’d found a bone brush that was _just right_ and given them both a thorough dry scrubbing. Fishlegs was certainly the academic authority on dragons, but Tuffnut was somehow able to divine their needs even without them knowing themselves. It was as if he’d been possessed by the spirit of a mother dragon.

He was the only Long-Paw they would allow into their den, because they trusted him to respect what that meant. Fishlegs was mad with envy, especially as Tuffnut would answer almost every question either cryptically or with blithering nonsense, and Ruffnut was fiercely jealous of her brother’s time and how much of it he was spending with the Nightstrikers.

This night, however, the cold-season was no longer content to remain tame. It lashed the rocks outside with savage winds, and spiderwebs of frost crept into their den as the night progressed. Even when they retreated their heads to breathe stale but warm air, the rock beneath them slowly sapped away heat and strength.

Fleeting and sluggish thoughts drifted through Dreamer’s mind. He realised too late that it was too cold, and he needed to do something, but he was just so tired... _Minimise contact with the ground._ What did he even have to work with? He couldn’t work out how he could wrap themselves in the pelt, and he was just _so tired_.

It took all his willpower, but he managed to slowly shuffle around and pull his front onto Wanderer’s flank. He kicked his legs under Wanderer’s head until he did the same; now only half of each of them, their lower halves, were touching the ground. When light finally graced the sky, Dreamer was numb and somehow more exhausted than before, but he and Wanderer were still breathing. He drifted in limbo, just the thought of moving had his body crying in protest but he was aware of the crunching footsteps approaching.

Someone was in their den, but he couldn’t muster the energy to care. He was being moved, it wasn’t quite as cold now at least. _Just stop jostling so much…_

Finally, the movement stopped and he was lain on something hard and flat. _More stone_ , he faintly registered, cool but not quite as cold. The air entering his lungs was much warmer now though, and a bit smoky. _Fire…_

He was finally drifting off, a dark and very deep sleep beckoning, but something was trying to rouse him. _I just want to sleep…_ He was being pushed, until he rolled over – blissful warmth flared over his body and began to sink through his chilled scales, slowly starting to work its way through his numb muscles. He sighed and shuffled a little to better soak it in, particularly through the bottoms of his paws.

The abyss below him closed, and he shifted sideways into a comfortable doze.

 _Huff._ Something was nudging Dreamer’s head, trying to wake him. He hadn’t noticed the passage of time, but the chill had completely disappeared from his body; if anything, he was now a little warm. He managed to open an eye. Wanderer filled his vision, his big expressive face full of _concern_ and _relief_ even as blurry as it was. Dreamer grumbled weakly when he received another nudge. _Alright, alright, I’m up._

Muscles aching their protest, he got his paws under him and rose shakily, knocking over something next to him with a rustle. He stood for a moment, letting his limbs stretch to the new position, then gingerly tested his joints. It was slow work, but the more he flexed the easier it became.

Awareness was slowly returning too, and his vision was clearing… _Oh._ It hadn’t seemed all that bad at the time but there was a small crowd in a hushed relief, and he was… in a fire pit. Literally _in_ it, up to his neck, with burning sticks and logs piled against his sides. He was beginning to realise how tenuous his grip on life had been. Some distant part of his mind was saying the flames licking his flanks should hurt, but they didn’t, and he didn’t have the strength to scrabble out in a panic anyway. He did manage a few wobbly paces out of the fire before collapsing.

There were Long-Paw sounds above him, but it was ringing in his head and he couldn’t make anything out. He did recognise his sire’s house. _I really need to stop waking up here like this. What must the neighbours think?_

He and Wanderer were then set up in his old bedroom, snuggled into a cozy nest of blankets on the floor, and Dreamer spent the next few days either asleep or wishing he was asleep. While Fishlegs and Tuffnut did their best to help him they couldn’t do much more than ensure he was kept warm and hydrated, but their presence was comforting.

“Is this what like have sire, dam?” he asked Wanderer when he was feeling a bit more lucid. He giggled internally, there was no question who was which.

Wanderer huffed. “Some. Dam wrap you in herself, very safe. Sire strong, fierce, but gentle, play much. Very loving, like Wanderer love Dreamer, but very big, very warm. You think they might win fight against sea.” He closed his eyes and hummed quietly in a tone both happy and mournful.

Dreamer had never known his mother, and only had distant memories of just playing with his sire. They’d gone hunting and fishing, but that quickly became boring for a boy with such a strong imagination so he’d always run off to explore, a habit that earned him more and more disdain over the years. He felt that where there should have been protective deities there was a gaping void on one side and a fiery tempest on the other.

On top of that, between Wanderer’s words and his actions, it seemed Nightstriker parents were much more loving and attentive than Viking ones. Dreamer felt a terrible craving to experience that much love, an unconditional love that he did not have to earn, and his chest ached with the knowledge that his relationship with Wanderer was the closest he would get; it wasn’t the same.

His little nest of blankets suddenly felt cramped and stagnant. He needed to stretch his legs, smell new air, so he dragged himself up, gave Wanderer a brief nuzzle on his way past and ambled downstairs. He didn’t know what he was expecting or intending, but a brief loop of the den confirmed his sire wasn’t even there.

Dreamer padded to the dying fire and lay next to it. Where had he gone wrong? Should he have eaten more? Spent less time… _dreaming,_ and more time working out? He curled up around the pain in his chest, into a tight disc, and hid under a wing. The same way he used to sleep in this house, in the bed upstairs, retreating to the closest thing he had to a safe place; his mind.

His eyes stung but could not weep, his breath dragged but would not catch. He wasn’t sure dragons even could cry, but either way he still could not; he’d built the clamps on his heart too well and they were holding back the tide, oblivious to his attempts to pry them loose.

So he just lay there, silent, still, wishing to be found like that and yet also not at all.

A wordless croon filled his ears, gentle and pleasant, and he was enveloped in another layer of scaly leather. It almost did feel like an unfathomably large and warm creature had wrapped him up. Almost.

For a while he was content like this, but Wanderer thought otherwise and coaxed him out of his curl to bring him into a proper embrace, belly to belly and wrapped in wings. Dreamer buried himself in the rumbling chest. Their scents were different, telling different stories, but underneath it all they really were the same. Wanderer really had somehow given his own body to replace Dreamer’s broken one. That was how much Wanderer loved him.

So why was he falling apart like this? What should he do? What was _anyone_ supposed to do? What did he want!?

_…Wanted not be alone again…_

The clamps didn’t break, but they cracked, and Dreamer pined and wailed into the embrace. The pained words, spoken by his friend what seemed like months ago, resonated strongly with his core and echoed in his mind. _Not be alone_ … He was being pulled close with purrs of _reassurance_ and _safety_ while he let go of the pain and torment he’d been harbouring in wracking, whining sobs.

A few minutes was all he needed, and he calmed; it really did feel like an immense pressure in his chest had been released. The reversal of their roles – from when he had regained his memories – was also not lost on him. _He is my safe place… and I will be his._

He gave Wanderer a fat lick under the chin and received a fat lick down his head in reply; a _thank you_ and _you’re welcome_ , but so much deeper and more meaningful. It was still difficult to get over just how expressive Nightstrikers were, probably other dragons too, and how easily he found himself adjusting to it. This was so much better than fiddly words.

 _Oof_ , Dreamer’s legs were starting to cramp and cry out for movement. _Well, maybe a few more minutes…_

* * *

Wanderer gently nuzzled the sleeping Dreamer, again bemoaning himself for his lack of preparedness. The little Nightstriker had suffered terribly in the storm that ate the warmth from their den and bodies, but the shine was now returning to his scales and his energy was growing.

In a way, having no energy would be nice right now… Wanderer was _bored_. His old nest had been warm and big enough for a little aerial play, but here all he could do was a bit of gliding. There were even annoying tree-things stretching across the den that further limited him, though they made good perches. At least this room had still smelled of Dreamer, of his fragile Long-Paw body, but those scents were slowly being replaced by Nightstriker ones. Maybe that was for the best.

He sighed and listened to the sounds outside. The sky-fire was not far from kindling and the wind was starting to pick up, blowing deadly shards of ice in every direction. It wasn’t all that far into the cold-season, he _might_ be able to sneak in a quick flight before the cold completely settled… but not this night. Resigned to another light in this stuffy den, he cracked a wide yawn and hunted for a small-ground-prey he thought he could smell. It might be his imagination… or maybe the one he caught last night. Who could say?

Sounds from below tugged at his ears, Dreamer’s sire stirring. He was being very loud about it. Wanderer padded down the wood-teeth to the lower den, then ducked under the strange not-skin that hung in the rear den-mouth. He found himself in a small room smelling strongly of the giant Long-Paw, and picked his way through the Long-Paw-not-skins strewn around the floor to the strange Long-Paw-sleeping-place that Dreamer’s sire rested on.

Although, right now he was not very restful. In his sleep he keened in long, mournful notes, and Dreamer’s words came to mind; “Be nice. He lost my dam, now me.” It had hurt when Wanderer had fled his nest, not knowing the fate of his family, but that was nothing to the thought of losing his Dreamer… and this Long-Paw had suffered it twice.

Wanderer brought his forepaws up to the raised sleeping-place, bringing him close to the Long-Paw’s face. Though much of it was obscured by that absurdly long fur on his face, the closed eyes were contorted and restless. It was not good sleeping. Wanderer gave a comforting, gentle croon, and after a few moments the eyes opened in fear – not of Wanderer, of something else – and a deep shame. Dreamer’s sire was very broken inside, that he could move at all was a testament to his strength.

A paw tentatively reached out and stroked Wanderer’s forehead, and he purred at the gesture. He recognised his new Long-Paw name – it was still sometimes difficult to resist rolling his eyes, much to Dreamer’s amusement – and huffed an agreement to the Long-Paw’s satisfaction. Dreamer’s sire sat and rumbled sad but comforting Long-Paw words, now stroking his frills and neck, and Wanderer started feeling drowsy. _Be nice_ … He hopped up onto the sleeping-place, and tentatively stepped into the Long-Paw’s lap. He didn’t have to particularly like Dreamer’s sire, but he could be nice, and if he had to be bored he might as well be comfortable about it.

He relaxed and resumed purring when the giant paws rubbed and kneaded his shoulders and back, working out the tension from the last few nights. The low rumblings were likely not intending to say _sleep_ , but if they insisted…

* * *

Winter was well and truly upon them, snow was piling up everywhere and the wind whipped a frenzy through the village. Trips outside were when necessary, as brief as possible, and only during the calms that occasionally settled; ‘calm’ being relative. While still in the Chief’s house, they were also the most exciting part of their routine.

Both Nightstrikers were going stir-crazy when Tuffnut turned up out of nowhere to miraculously save the day with a suggestion to rotate the pair between willing houses of the village. It was actually getting a bit creepy how good he was with this when he was otherwise so scatter-brained and chaotic.

Today, they found themselves in Astrid’s house, and just like everyone else she shared it with an uncountable number of relatives. There were three stories, and two of them were packed with beds. Dreamer really hadn’t realised how good his accommodations had been as the Chief’s son, and was getting the idea that it wasn’t only his physique that had earned him the ire of his peers.

Just like the last house – an enthusiastic family of labourers – not everyone in Astrid’s proud warrior family was thrilled with the idea of dragons running around. However, even the grumpiest of their hosts had to approve whenever a Nightstriker caught and cleanly disposed of the rodents seeking refuge from the cold, and they were also very good at keeping the kids occupied.

Hiding under a bed, Dreamer scanned the floor in front of him. The wood above him creaked – there! He shot out and viciously attacked the morsel of dried fish, then scrabbled back under the bed to the squeals and wild giggling of four children. The scrap barely touched his belly, but it was a pleasant explosion of flavour on his tongue and he was enjoying the fun he was giving the kids; they had also been very bored being cooped up inside for so long.

Astrid whispered from the bed, but it was just unintelligible rasping sounds. No matter, it was fairer this way. The next drop was a little further out, he would have to be quick – a mirror shadow shot out from the bed across the room. Dreamer got there first, but Wanderer snatched the treat out from under him then darted around to pinch his hiding spot too.

Dreamer griped over the laughs and cheers, but quickly leapt under a different bed. Peeking out from under it, he watched Astrid hand a sliver of fish to one of the younger kids, a little girl with wild curly blonde hair and a round face. The child wobbled to the edge of the bed and dropped the treat, then cackled madly at Wanderer snatching it up and disappearing again.

With more whispers, Astrid handed another to one of the older kids, a boy of maybe eight or nine, and it was tossed to the middle of the room. No, wait, _two_ treats! Dreamer dug his claws in and shot out again, quickly snapping up the closer treat and pouncing on the other before Wanderer got it. There was a scuffle, but Dreamer managed to scoff it down too.

Wanderer bit him, so he bit him back and then they were having a full-on play fight on the floor with a laughing and cheering audience. Of course, Wanderer always won when he wanted to and he was being a sore loser for having his treat stolen, but a call for dinner saved Dreamer from a surely grizzly end; even Wanderer understood that particular call, regardless of who was shouting it. They dropped through the hole in the floor, ignoring the stairs, and stalked in the rafters until everyone was settled.

This next bit was tricky. The family would crowd around the fire to eat, and the Nightstrikers had to sneak around the kids without attracting the adults’ attention. Success earned them tasty bites of food, failure resulted in being chastised and chased off. The head of the household before last had once chased them off with a broom and locked them upstairs; Wanderer left a dead mouse for her in apology, and who was Dreamer to argue with that.

Sometimes the adults were more amenable though, and Dreamer was learning how to identify them. The man he was creeping behind, an uncle of Astrid’s, had been grinning at the Nightstrikers whenever his wife wasn’t looking. A discrete nuzzle of his elbow, and he covertly rewarded Dreamer with a fat slice of juicy fish.

After dinner he and Wanderer were fed the scraps and some raw fish – of course they didn’t have to beg, it was just more fun – and the younger kids were sent off to practice their runes. Some of the older kids were allowed to stay in the family area with the adults to chat or play games, where Dreamer climbed into Astrid’s lap and purred as she absently stroked him. Wanderer picked one of her mellower cousins to accompany.

This was definitely much better than lounging around the Chief’s house.

Astrid was cheekily creeping her hand around Dreamer’s side and tilting her legs to lean him over, surreptitiously making her way to his soft belly. He was about to warn her off when she distracted him with a scratch under his jaw – then it was far too late. He was on his side, and her hand was finding _all_ the right spots. She’d had her own dragon for over a year now, of course she’d know all the tricks, but that didn’t make Wanderer’s snickering any easier to bear.

 _Oh no_ , Dreamer though mildly as his legs kicked and happy growls escaped his throat. He should really roll back over, preserve _some_ of his dignity… Instead, he lazily shifted his head to get a look at his captor. Once upon a time she had been beautiful, striking, he might have dared to say _stunning_. She’d made his legs weak and his brain seize. Now, she was maturing and growing into her face, and intellectually he could appreciate her figure… but there was no attraction. Nothing. He couldn’t even remember what he’d found attractive in the first place.

Of course, he was too young for such thoughts anyway… again? It was strange, like a piece of him had just fallen away. He no longer wanted… that… and so attractiveness was again a foreign concept, which went on to change his own thinking. What used to be a glorious girl with the light shining through her hair was now someone who jumped to violence at the twitch of a claw and had a large emphasis on pride.

When it was deemed time for everyone to sleep, the Nightstrikers were laid on the floor in front of the fire with a long day of play behind them and a good meal weighing comfortably in their bellies. They were both desperately looking forward to flying again, but this was a tolerable way to pass the winter.

* * *

Fishlegs was ecstatic, it was _finally_ his house’s turn to host the Furies! It had been arbitrarily decided to start at the top of Berk and move them down, minimising their exposure to the elements, which all made perfect sense except for that his house was at the bottom. Though, the wait _had_ given him a lot of time to think up new studies; patience was a virtue, after all. Being a sort of unofficial dragon advisor he did have the privilege of visiting rights – when the weather allowed – to ensure the pair were being treated properly, but that wasn’t the same.

He’d insisted on fetching them himself, so now he was head to toe in furs, only the tiniest slit open to see through, while the wind howled and wailed and tried to pull him over for the duration of the arduously long trek three doors up the path. This was a remarkably good calm in the storms.

Once he was let in he excitedly listed off some of the more important questions, but Astrid just stared at him blankly.

“You realise I can’t hear you under all those furs? Nevermind– no, don’t take them off. Here, just take them.” She pulled out a small bag and placed something on each of his shoulders which were quickly snapped up by the two fledglings climbing up his back. “Have fun training them,” she said sarcastically, “they won’t do anything without a treat _first_.”

“Hmmm, that _is_ one of the problems I foresaw training smarter dragons, it’s fine, I’ll think of something.” Astrid gave him a tired look. _Oh, right._

She draped another thick coat over him, tying it at his shoulders and waist to enclose the dragons in a pocket over his back, and attached a sack to his side. He shouted a muffled goodbye as she opened the door for him, and carefully wedged himself out to trek back home.

He was greeted by nine and a half pairs of studious eyes when he shut the door behind him, and felt the two Furies shuffling forward to peek out from under the overcoat. He made shooing motions with his thickly garbed arms until everyone shuffled back, and only then let his little sister approach to undo the knots. The sack, containing toys, brushes, treats, and other effects, clattered to the floor, followed by the overcoat and then the dragons. While he peeled off layers, he reflected on how _cool_ it would be to have a little Night Fury perched on each shoulder, each like a swivelling turret of death. He could just stroll through a battlefield and lay waste to everything around him.

His fantasy was cut short by growling. Toothy and Hiccup were crouched low and backing away from Froglegs, a cousin two years Fishlegs’ senior.

“Really? I give you _one rule_ , ‘no weapons’ and you just _have_ to break it!” Fishlegs frustratedly exclaimed.

Froglegs sported a dim smile; despite appearances he was highly intelligent with the Ingerman thirst for knowledge, but liked time to think and act. Wordlessly he reached into a pocket and procured a small flat bar of iron. “I think we can ink your theory of smell, Fish’,” he said carefully while the Furies inspected the metal and then him.

When they were seemingly satisfied, he produced a second identical bar. Toothy wasn’t interested, but Hiccup gave Froglegs a dirty look. Fishlegs was with him.

“Rubbed a whetstone on that one,” Froglegs pointed to the bar on the floor, “and they found it, but not this one which is raw. Fascinating.”

Froglegs’ mother cuffed his ear and glared at him before addressing everyone else. “Awright, ye’s seen ‘em now, ye can play with the scalies later when they’ve settled. Clear off!” she barked. When Aunt Ragnhild said move, you _moved_ , and the room suddenly felt a lot bigger. With freedom and space, Toothy and Hiccup explored, and before long they’d had their nose in every cupboard and paws on every shelf. After Toothy had been chased away from the food counter for the third time, Fishlegs dug out a pair of mutton bones for them to chew on until dinner.

The Ingerman clan was one of the more successful of the village, and to eat they sat around a table as mark of their status. Maybe it was a little cramped but it sure beat eating off the floor. The plates were passed around, each holding a fish fillet, a cut of mutton, and a pile of steaming vegetables. Much more generous than any previous Winter; some years, meat had been a luxury for every second or third day.

One of the Furies, Fishlegs couldn’t see which, tugged at Froglegs’ sleeve.

“Huh, what you got there?” Froglegs wondered aloud as he leaned back. As close to shoulder-to-shoulder as they were, this created a small gap over the back of his chair through which darted a dark shadow, and the mutton chop disappeared from his plate. It was so fast that Frog didn’t even have a chance to react, instead he could only spin in his chair and stare backwards after his dinner – this allowed the first Night Fury to jump up and grab the fish as well, and the pair thundered upstairs with their plunder.

The whole scene was over in seconds, and everyone stared in dumb shock at Froglegs, who stared morosely at his lonely vegetables. After a moment he seemed to realise he was holding something and brought it up in front of his face – his iron bar from earlier.

The house shook with mirth, Fishlegs was laughing so hard there were tears streaming down his face and he was struggling to keep his chin out of his own dinner. “That’ll learn ya!” someone called out, and the laughter redoubled. Froglegs did not find it funny at all. Later he would make a comment about the intelligence of Night Furies, but for now he just stared sadly at his plate.

Aunt Ragnhild eventually recovered enough to speak, “Aw lad, go get yeself another fish and stake it over the fire,” she said hoarsely. “And mind yer curiosity next time!”

The sounds of joviality were quickly replaced by those of hungry Vikings, and then with conversation. The Ingerman clan had jobs all over the village and never all got a chance to eat together until winter, so they used this time to cement their family bonds and to somewhat formally catch up with what everyone was doing.

Naturally, the subject tonight was their little guests, and Fishlegs beamed while recounting interesting behaviours he’d noticed, discussing his theory of their suitability for warmer climates, that they couldn’t seem to breathe fire yet, and his mission of learning their language. He’d always been fascinated by dragons, but until now all anyone else – save sometimes Hiccup – was interested in was how to kill them. Not eating and migratory habits, and certainly not how to be killed _by_ them, so this was a wonderful change.

More knowledge was never a bad thing, right? Surely someone could have used it to help fight. Although, Fishlegs had since realised that he had never really wanted to fight and kill dragons, it was just the only way he knew how to interact with them. Until recently it was the only way anyone _could_ interact with them.

He received good feedback on his language ideas, and some of the more astute fighters recalled things they’d seen in raids that might be helpful. “You know,” Uncle Gunnar mused, “we have a book around here somewhere on training hunting dogs. It had a page on recognising their behaviours – bared teeth, tail movements, posture, and so on. I’ve noticed a few of them just this evening, betcha dragons aren’t much different.”

“Of course, it’s so obvious now!” Fishlegs loudly berated himself. “I already have a sketch of one apologising, I’d just assumed it was sort of like a bow or handshake, not that their words might not be sounds at all! Actually, no, I’m sure lots of words are sounds, it’s probably a mix between the two...” He considered getting his notebook out to pass around, but a glance at his greasy fingers convinced him otherwise.

The biggest problem he faced was that without context he was completely in the dark, and they didn’t seem to try to talk Dragonese, as he was calling it, to any but each other and sometimes Stormfly or Meatlug. He was still thinking about it later, as he watched Hiccup tug and grapple with a short length of tattered rope trying to pull it free of Toothy’s jaws. How could he get them talking? How could he differentiate between what was a ‘word’ and what wasn’t?

Toothy let go of the rope and Hiccup toppled backwards, grumpily got to his feet, and batted Toothy around the ears a few times. Fishlegs’ eyes narrowed, and a series of memories lined up in his head in almost perfect unison as he sketched the scene.

He’d found a thread, and once he started pulling at it… A phrase his grandfather used to say came to mind, “An idea is a very infectious thing.” Only now, at this moment, did he truly understand that.

* * *

Berk was literally buried in snow. It clung to the steep roofs of the houses, piled in corners, and camouflaged stairs. There were a few interesting holes where someone had inadvertently walked off an icy ten-foot drop and had to dig themselves out.

After spending so long inside, the air was miraculously crisp and clean, though it was still cold enough to bite through Dreamer’s scales. As long as he kept active it wasn’t a problem, and this was definitely a time to be active.

Wanderer pounced him from behind and dropped a wad of wet snow between his wings, sending icy shivers down his spine and tail. Squealing, Dreamer threw him off and shook himself, then rolled in the snow to try to dry his back. He growled and tried to take a mouthful of snow to retaliate, but apparently Nightstrikers were severely prone to brain freeze and he hurriedly spat it out with pained groans. _How had Wanderer done that?_ he wondered while rubbing his tongue along the roof of his wide mouth to try to ease the pain.

Wanderer was laughing, so Dreamer lunged at him and they fought in the white powder. He was getting better, dodging and snaking away from grapples and bites, but couldn’t seem to pin the bigger dragon. He did manage to clamp his teeth on Wanderer’s ear and received a satisfying yip, but was then distracted by something cold hitting him in the shoulder.

 _Again!?_ He shook off the snowball, searching for the culprit, but the teens were all staring at him and stifling giggles, it was impossible to tell who was guilty. _All of them_ , he decided, shouting indignantly to their raucous laughter.

“With me,” he grumbled at Wanderer, who chuffed mischievously, and they bounded behind the nearest house to conspire.

By the time they took to the air, the teens had surrounded themselves with a low wall of snow and were locked in battle with a larger group of their younger siblings. Wanderer and Dreamer laboured high above them, then pitched forward into sharp dives and pulled up to soar over the battlefield.

The large snowballs they’d been carrying continued to hurtle down, Dreamer’s hitting Snotlout square between the shoulders and Wanderer’s bowling over Astrid. Dreamer looked back to see both rounding on Ruffnut, Snotlout twisting stiffly on his feet as snow presumably melted down his collar. Snickering, Dreamer motioned to Wanderer and they quickly picked up more snow from a nearby roof.

Course, rough shouts followed them into the air after they’d dropped their second payloads. Dreamer was sure to laugh loud enough that Ruffnut, now covered head to toe in snow, could hear as he circled above the makeshift snow fort, and Wanderer chattered a matching laugh opposite him. Such it was that everyone was either laughing or looking up when the army of kids charged the walls and point-blank pelted the teens with snowballs.

It wasn’t long before hunger made itself known, as it quickly did when playing in the cold, and everyone waded up to the gloriously warm Great Hall for the Snoggletog feast. It was a week-long affair, with food constantly being laid out to celebrate those who survived another winter – they were better stocked some winters than others, but this was a particularly grand feast. At any one time there was a whole spit-roasted prey-thing hanging over the fire, and all the Furies had to do was stare longingly at it for a few moments before someone would cut off a leg for them to share.

Dreamer was taken back to the times he had torn apart young boars and deer with Wanderer, the meals they had hunted and caught together. Despite the constant danger, despite not knowing if they would catch their next meal or go hungry, he found himself looking back fondly at the feral life. The way this mutton just fell apart in his claws was very satisfying, and the fat and juices running from it were _divine_ , but it lacked something. The kills he and Wanderer had made were _theirs_ , and achievement was an incredible seasoning.

Partway through lapping up some scraps, Dreamer paused. Since when had he been comfortable licking the _floor_ of all things? People were constantly treading who knew what into the hall, and a quick sweep was usually all the cleaning it got, but… he couldn’t bring himself to be disgusted by it. All he could smell was the splatters of tasty fat and protein, still tantalisingly close to his nose, and before he could stop himself the tip of his forked tongue poked forward. _What am I so worried about?_ Vikings weren’t exactly a hygienic lot, and his tongue had been in some pretty gross places by Long-Paw standards even after regaining his memories. He’d been eating live bugs out there in the wild, and more recently the mice that snuck inside over winter, just for the fun of it. It was all perfectly normal for a dragon.

…Oh. _For a dragon_. A small part of him that he’d been ignoring was recoiling at the statement, blithely insisting that he was still human. But _should_ he ignore it? He didn’t want to lose himself to the dragon he’d become… for all the sense that made.

He yawned widely, his full belly demanding sleep. A nap sounded good, and often things made more sense afterwards. “Too cold for sleep in den?” he asked. If a nap didn’t help, Wanderer had a way of making problems seem very simple and trivial.

The bigger dragon hummed thoughtfully. “We see.”

On a base level, though not consciously, Dreamer was aware of the wiry figure in the corner of the hall. He’d been glaring at the two Night Furies from the moment they’d entered, muttering and groaning to himself; certainly not to anyone else, he was normally given a wide berth, and on this day he was in a particularly foul mood.

When the two dragons exited the hall, the old man followed them outside and watched from the stone steps as they flew away. Scowling, he secured his coat against the cold and trudged into the village.

* * *

As was usually the case, Berk was shrouded in the shadows of thick grey clouds looming overhead. While the threat of rain was always quite real on this remote land it had thankfully not yet graced the day with its presence.

“I must admit that, while I am exuberant at the liberation of the village, I am disappointed to lose such a proliferous source of dragon paraphernalia. However, I am a resourceful man, and I am sure this will not greatly inhibit my enterprise. I shall of course continue to return to Berk to trade necessities and curiosities aplenty, as long as I am duly compensated you understand.”

The hold of the heavy boat amplified the sounds of the water sloshing against its side, and the sails flapped in their bindings, but Johann was so familiar with these noises that he no longer noticed them. His ears were tuned to dragon calls, still uncertain of the supposed peace Berk had attained and if that peace extended to foreigners. No dark shapes descended from the gloomy sky to rain fire upon him, but what the lunatic Vikings considered to be safe was often still fraught with peril, such as riding on the backs of flying lizards for example.

“Aye, good to hear it,” rumbled Chief Stoick through his magnificent beard. “And yes, now that we aren’t spending all our time rebuilding we can produce other wares. Come, let’s talk over a mug of mead.”

“Ahh, I do look forward to a mug of Berk’s _prestigious_ mead after such a peregrination.” It was a truth, of sorts. The drink was far too pungent for his tastes, but it was nonetheless very welcome after so long at sea and particularly when accompanied by a hot meal. What was traded to him also sold well enough in the south.

The discussion proceeded without issue, Berk had a practically non-existent supply of dragon parts for trade this year, but also did not require copious amounts of metal and food. Additionally, there were extra leathers and mead to trade so they were easily able to broker an agreement.

It was also a good opportunity to keep up with the local gossip. The Hooligans, strangely being the most stable Viking tribe despite their proximity to the nest, was always the first stop on Johann’s journey. It allowed him to get a read of the rest of the Archipelago before sailing into it, and with the practiced ear of a merchant he kept tabs on four or five conversations around him in addition to the one he was having.

“I beg your pardon?” Johann suddenly squeaked, going white. He hadn’t thought he’d heard right, and ignored the woman he’d been talking with to sidle into the conversation going on next to him.

“Eh? I was jus’ sayin’ the Furies are back ou’ in the air. Been cramped up indoors all wint–“

“My apologies for interrupting, good sir, but you wouldn’t be referring to a _Night Fury_ , would you?”

“…Yeh? Two of ‘em.”

Johann willed his legs to still, but failed to calm his voice. “ _Two_ Night Furies!? And… they _haven’t_ levelled the place…?”

The Vikings, a pair of men with typical brawny arms and thick greasy hair, laughed at him. As if it were a joke. The woman he’d been talking to laughed as well. “We use’ to have trouble with one, mostly took out the catapults and torches in raids. You would’a got tha’ story last year, how ‘Iccup brough’ ‘im to heel an’ saved the village an’ all. Pro’lly a good thing tha’ beastie ran off, lotsa grudges against ‘im. Well, jus’ afore winter a pair o’ wee ones turned up out’a nowhere, an’ they been livin’ ‘ere since. Don’t even got no fire yet, only thing they’ll level is a plate o’ fish.”

The Viking across the table raised his mug. “Yeh should meet ‘em! Right frien’ly, they are. Cute, too.”

…Trust the Vikings to find ‘cute’ in a pair of death machines. Johann might have considered the Hooligans a sensible lot, but that was still only by comparison.

The Viking next to him called something and suggestively waved a leg of mutton in the air. “Toothy! ‘Iccup! Huh, tha’s odd.” He was looking up, now scratching the side of his head.

Johann followed his gaze, the light of the fires didn’t quite reach the roof but peering into the dim he could just make out four green orbs that had no place being there. Four eyes, seeming to glow with their own eerie flames. Two dragons. _Two_ _Night Furies!_

Fighting his instincts to loose some of the knives in his sleeves and run screaming from the hall, Johann rose slowly. He couldn’t look away; as nightmarish as those lights were, he was more afraid of losing sight of them.

Thankfully they were still there, floating near the roof, when his back bumped into the door. He was loath to break eye contact and his back prickled with the expectation of fireballs slamming into it, but it was necessary to turn around so that he could run all the way back to his ship.

He passed his sentry in a blur and barricaded himself in the cabin, then sat on the bed and cupped his head in his hands. Of course, the ship would be little protection if a Night Fury decided to end him, but reason had nothing to do with this. He’d just been told these two were young, friendly, and couldn’t even shoot fire yet, but all his reeling mind could remember was the piercing shrieks, and hoping to hear the following explosions. That had meant he was still alive.

He was on the verge of success of trying to convince himself it had just been some terrible nightmare when there was a knock at the door. Johann straightened his tunic and bracers before opening it to stare into a mass of red beard. “…Ahhh, Stoick, my apologies for the abrupt departure from your magnificent hall. I found myself feeling suddenly under the weather…”

The big man considered him. “…Walk with me a moment.” With time to calm down and think, Johann wasn’t quite as skittish now, and it helped that Stoick exuded confidence and strength in his slow gait as they climbed back into the village. “It’s partially my fault. I didn’t put myself in your shoes. Two years ago I wouldn’t have handled that any better. They are problems in the south too, then?”

Why, that was practically an invitation! Johann never could resist regaling one of the many adventures he’d accumulated over the years. “You could say that, my good friend. It was commonplace, many years ago. There I was, a merchant not long embarked on the seas of independence, moored at the bustling dock of Tjeldskenny. Ahh, I remember it like it was yesterday. In those days, the streets smelled of fresh pine and the wares flew from the crates. Made quite a tidy profit from the numerous furs and ivory they offered in trade.”

He listed some of the less relevant but no less important details of the town, setting the scene, though he was oddly out of breath as they reached the top of the ramps from the dock. No matter. “Despite the brutish nature of many of its people they were very hospitable and civilised, much like yourselves really, so it was a good town to moor at for the night. Or so I thought.

“I had just retired to my room in the inn… when I _heard it_.” Icy chills crept their way down Johann’s spine at the thought; this was one of the few things he did not like to recount. “I am certain you are all too familiar with _that_ sound... And with every dive, another flash of blue momentarily banished the darkness, and another building was wiped from the village.

“I lay awake through the rest of the night, fearing that sound would return, and only after watching the hunting party leave the next morning did I muster the confidence to depart. It was quite some time before I returned, after similar experiences in other small villages, but never stayed the night again. No, I’ve learned the safest place to moor overnight is in a large city, or nowhere at all.”

“Aye,” Stoick rumbled, “I understood why you never stayed here long. I hope you weren’t carrying food on your ship?”

Johann stroked his beard; in the south it was considered long, not so much here. “That, my dear Stoick, was the strange part. The beast was merely content with its destruction of the town and exhibited complete disinterest in anything else. Just like yours, if memory serves.” He was abruptly reminded of _why_ he was telling this story, and his tone darkened. “Mark my words, it’s a dangerous game to fraternise with those demons.”

Stoick stroked the braids in his own beard while he thought. By now they had almost reached the Great Hall, but Stoick instead turned off by his house. “I understand. Here’s my counter.”

They walked behind the Chief’s lodgings to find a squat boy playing tug-of-war on the grass with two small dragons, using a rope with three ends and a knot in the middle. One of the dragons quickly dropped the rope to observe Johann warily, but the other dragon pounced it and they rolled around on the grass. Johann was strongly reminded of puppies, or perhaps kittens were a closer comparison. Somewhere in between.

“Thank you Fishlegs. How are they doing today?”

“Both happy and healthy. Still growing steadily, but much slower than other species.”

Johann realised his mouth was hanging open, and closed it with a click. The wary dragon, when standing on all fours, came up to about his knee, and the other was maybe a full hand shorter. Even with the playful behaviour and juvenility aside, they didn’t live up to expectation.

He’d once, long ago, traded copies of a portrait that was as accurate as anyone could make out from the brief silhouettes afore the fires, but they were quite wrong. What had been assumed to be wicked horns were more like ears, two large ones and six small ones. Instead of large, razor sharp spines down their backs they had blunt fins. Instead of needles like most other dragons they had wide and short teeth, though they still tapered to wicked points. Their claws were similarly wider and shorter than assumed, but no less sharp.

“If you like you can approach and pet them,” Fishlegs said happily, demonstrating by holding out a hand that was quickly filled with purring dragon, “but you’ll need to disarm first. They won’t let you approach if you’re carrying anything sharp.”

“Ah, thank you, master Fishlegs, but I am quite content observing from here,” Johann stuttered nervously. He held some twenty-six blades on him at this moment – anyone underestimating _this_ humble merchant was always in for a nasty surprise – even if he _was_ willing to approach... the… _Hmm_. “If you would be so gracious, Chief Stoick, I think I require a few more mugs of that mead…”


	5. Trepidation

Dreamer’s eyes were narrowed to slits, legs responding to the path through the trees that his mind was constantly calculating, paws flexing to grip the icy ground as they made impact. The smell of greenery wormed its way through the chill snow, and the only sounds were the occasional breeze whistling through the frozen trees and Wanderer bounding along ahead of him.

How they had missed this… Being fed was simply not the same as hunting their own meals, and with the other dragons all off on their warm egg-nest, as Wanderer had called it, they safely had free reign of the forest. About the only thing that even could give them trouble here was a pack of wolves, which would steer clear of their fellow predators now that they were almost the same size.

Wanderer stopped suddenly and Dreamer pulled up beside him, both nosing at the small thicket with mouths watering. _Breakfast_. They prowled around the thicket, probing it, mapping its exits, trying to determine how many prey-things were inside; at least two. Dreamer let instinct take over, but left a small portion of himself to observe. Wanderer silently took the lead of the hunt, and with miniscule movements had Dreamer take up a position and wait to ambush. Just by reading where Wanderer was looking, Dreamer already knew the plan.

Wanderer started clawing at the shrubs, and the first rabbit shot from the foliage to be immediately snapped up, but a second and third got past him. That was good, Dreamer had been hoping for a proper hunt. He tossed the rabbit dangling from his teeth at the thicket, hoping it would still be there when they returned, and took chase after the closer one.

Rabbits were very, _very_ fast and agile prey, so special tactics were needed to catch them. From a little distance behind Dreamer could cut corners to catch up, but the closer he got the closer he had to follow its path and the less he could do to gain on it. A body-length behind – that included his long tail – and he could gain no further.

But behind them, Wanderer could gain. As the rabbit darted and swerved through the trees, Dreamer pulled a little out to the side, encouraging it to turn the other way and into Wanderer, who then took up the lead to herd it into Dreamer. They tag-teamed like this several times, until finally Dreamer got in front of it and its fluffy white fur met Wanderer’s sharp white teeth.

Panting, they returned to the thicket where Wanderer noisily crunched his catch in half, but Dreamer just stared at his own. It was the first thing larger than a mouse that he’d killed since regaining his memories, and he’d done it without thought. He was no ignorant child, and he knew that the moment he unsheathed his teeth he’d be able to keep biting and shredding, but this first step… It was an intellectual one, a conscious decision to join the wild forces of nature.

An enquiring warble brought him back to reality. “I thinking,” Dreamer replied and tore the rabbit in half, finding with mild surprise that the long fur didn’t really bother him.

“Night you _not_ thinking is night you need new name,” Wanderer teased as he cleaned his claws.

Dreamer stuck his bloody tongue out at him, then gulped down the other half of his catch. His mind had gotten in the way of his enjoyment of it, but he just needed time to process. Next hunt he would not waver. The whole ‘turned into a dragon’ thing still occasionally tripped him up, even as used to it as he was, but he was slowly finding a balance between the Viking and the Nightstriker.

It was curious that he enjoyed hunting now when he had not as a Viking. Granted, they were _wildly_ different experiences, and comparing his old body to his new one was like comparing a rusty hinge to an oiled bearing. The gnarly bark on a nearby tree caught Dreamer’s eye, and he had a sudden urge to climb it; part of him was curious about his body’s limitations, but mostly he just wanted to climb for the fun of it. Wanderer watched as he tentatively gripped the bark with his claws, did the same with his hind-claws, and crept up the tree. Nightstriker claws were shorter and thicker than other dragons’, and he found them handling his weight with ease. The pull on them even felt good, sort of like stretching a stiff joint.

Before he knew it, he was a few body-lengths from the ground and had reached the lowest branch. It had been so easy and took so little effort that he angled around to the lowest branch and climbed out along it, upside down. That was only marginally more difficult, his forelegs not being quite as strong, but with his claws dug in firmly he could sort of half-walk, half-swing along the branch.

Wanderer nipped his tail, apparently having followed, then slung his own tail over the branch and hung upside down from it. _Ooooh, I gotta try that…_ Dreamer pulled his hindlegs up and snaked his tail over the branch, but it was nerve-wracking trying to get it to support his weight without it pulling his claws out. Below him, Wanderer chirped and waved, but Dreamer took little notice. He was busy trying to–

With a squeak, his top half fell away from the branch and wrenched away his hind-claws, leaving him to… swing. He was swinging by his tail! He let out a happy croon and spread out his legs and wings, dangling high off the ground like a giant black fruit. Nearby, Wanderer reached up to grab the branch and shuffle closer so that they could just about reach each other, then swiped at Dreamer with a playful growl.

What followed was a very interesting game of tag, where neither of them could move and they had _four_ limbs to strike with instead of one or two. Dreamer frantically slapped away paws darting at him, nearly losing his tail’s grip on the branch a few times, but managed to get in a few strikes of his own. Including, he was quite proud to accomplish, landing a strike on a startled Wanderer’s nose. The fact that Wanderer had been biting his other foreleg at the time was beside the point.

This was another curiosity, he was now enjoying rough play. It went back to his wondering of how much of thought was influenced by the body, such as with his sudden drop back behind puberty, and he suspected having a body that _liked_ being exercised was the biggest part of that. He hoped so, anyway; there were more disturbing reasons his thoughts could be different.

Wanderer got a good kick in with his hindlegs while he was spacing out, and for a crucial moment Dreamer forgot to use his tail – his heart leapt into his throat as he slipped from the branch. Without thinking he reflexively twisted in the air and flared his wings, and quite to his own surprise he landed squarely on his paws, if firmly. He could pretend that was all planned, and that he _hadn’t_ shrieked on the way down. He glared up at Wanderer who looked back at him innocently, still hanging upside down.

 _…We are so adorable_ , Dreamer thought to himself. It was a pity everyone was so accommodating by default, even his sire, he almost wanted to try his arsenal of cute on someone. Wanderer had certainly had no qualms practicing on him while trapped in the cove, and the adult dragon’s pleading eyes had been near impossible to resist. Now that he was also tiny? That would be very dangerous.

They took wing and let the wind carry them up onto the flat above them where they perched to watch the sky-fire kindle in the water. Dreamer shivered – there was no shelter from the cold wind here – and wrapped himself in his wings while Wanderer did the same next to him.

He dreaded going back to their den, what they would find when they got there, but did his best to shove the thoughts from his head, they only served to boil his blood. _Think about something else_. Slowly, surely, the sky began to glow, and colour returned to the world. Some of it. Gone from the sky were the passionate reds, majestic oranges and fiery yellows, all replaced with a smear of cool green across the horizon. He couldn’t even remember what a sunrise had looked like before, not that he had watched many.

“What word for look different? Sky, grass, blood. Sky, sea same. Grass, trees same.”

“Rrmm… Colour. Why ask?”

“Long-Paws see more colours. Fire not colour of grass, it other colours.”

“Fire not blood-colour, grass-colour?” Wanderer warbled in confusion.

“It more blood-colour, but no grass-colour. It… other colours.” This was difficult to explain. How could he describe a colour he couldn’t see or remember? He couldn’t even say their names anymore. For that matter, how does one describe a colour at all?

Wanderer unwrapped himself, then nosed his way under Dreamer’s wing and sidled up next to him, draping one wing over his shoulders and wrapping the other in front of them. Dreamer mirrored him, one wing draped over their rumps and the other in front of them as well so that they were a single bundle of warmth with only their heads and tails sticking out. It was much easier to talk like this. “Sky-fire-kindling blood-colour, two more colours, like fire. Trees different colour, but leaves grass-colour. More, rare colours in plants, small-wing-things.”

“That too many colours,” Wanderer remarked flatly.

“I not remember them. I know fire not grass-colour, but I not remember what look like. It strange.” He couldn’t stop picking over his memories, he could remember thinking about the beauty but the memory of the sunrise itself was distorted and wrong. Just as he couldn’t describe the colours, his mind could no longer comprehend them even though it had the memory of it.

As he had talked, the sky-fire had appeared from the water, a little speck, and was now swelling and blazing brighter as they watched. Dreamer felt his eyes automatically filtering out the light, not quite the same way his human eyes had. Strange as it was, his sight was the biggest difference; he still had muscles, skin, teeth, nails, ears, a nose, and they all worked in the same way if usually better, but these eyes were alien.

The sight in front of him changed – the flat, dirty green across the horizon slowly gave way to a warmer green, and then a blazing green. The sky around that brilliant light shone in a vast array of tones that he wouldn’t have thought possible, he didn’t even have the words to do it justice. The sky-fire seemed to engulf the sky above it, like a plume of fire from an enormous dragon, and the ocean stretching out far below them was set ablaze. There even was a bit of red, if he looked closely, but it was lost in the overwhelming and vibrant shades.

There was a familiar sensation in his head, not painful this time, and he watched the memory of the sunrise twist into focus. No longer an explosion of colour, but now an explosion of tone and no less beautiful. Maybe this was why it had apparently taken so long for his memories to surface, on their own they were just too foreign for this mind to understand.

Those thoughts never led anywhere good so he put all that aside for now, focusing on the view, and the bits of his mind that weren’t content to sit idle were set to thinking of the upcoming Thing. How he’d love to go, help convince the other tribes that dragons can be friendly, helpful creatures and show how amazing they were, but he had no way to suggest it without throwing Berk into chaos. He toyed with the idea of going along anyway, but there were too many wildcards. Best case scenario, his father would tell the truth so as to not appear hostile, that the Nightstrikers were wild and had simply followed him, but that would make them fair game to the other Chiefs.

So that particular dream was shot down, but perhaps circumstances would change and he’d be able to go another year. If not, maybe the other tribes would come around on their own when they saw how successful Berk was with dragons, in time. Or he’d come up with some other plan, when they were bigger and Wanderer stopped mothering him about danger all the time.

With the sky-fire resolving into its usual painfully bright ball, there wasn’t much else to sit around for. Dreamer cracked a wide yawn and stretched – the cold had seized his wings somewhat – before dropping from the cliff to soar back to their nest. His sire would probably be leaving soon, and he wanted to see him off. It had nothing to do with not wanting to go back to their den, no, they had decided to take a stand and show it wasn’t bothering them.

They took a bit of a detour when Wanderer nipped his tail, starting an impromptu game of chase, and arrived at the docks just in time to see the Chief’s boat raise the sail and stow the oars. It was a beautiful thing, narrow and sleek with a well-polished hull and a clean sail proudly sporting the Berk crest, and the prow still featured a fearsome dragon though Dreamer felt its symbology had changed.

Thankfully the distance of the boat out to sea meant little to one with wings. He dove, feeling his heart skip as his weight vanished, and pulled up just before the water to shoot out across it with Wanderer on his tail. They reached the boat in moments and wheeled around it to the enthusiastic roars of the Vikings on the deck.

Stoick himself stood facing the ship from its prow, his expression unreadable between his helmet and facial hair, and as he turned and leaned on the railing he seemed… not quite happy, that wasn’t the right word, but satisfied. He stood well and held his head high. There were fewer cracks in his shell, and while he undoubtedly still hurt underneath it all this meant he was slowly healing. As much as anyone could from such loss. Not for the first time, and unlikely for the last, Dreamer wished things could be different.

He decided to send them off with some style, and laboured up high into the air in front of the ship. Wanderer pulled up next to him, but Dreamer didn’t need to say anything. Like with the hunt, they could read each other quite well in many ways, and Wanderer’s look said _approval_.

When the boat was a mere speck far below, they let their momentum die. It was strange being this high in the light, and a little daunting, but he felt reassured being this close to their nest. With a glance at Wanderer, he tucked his head down, pulled his rump up, and launched himself back towards the sea. He felt as much as heard his whistle build, now steady and a bit deeper, but Wanderer’s was still better. The slightly different notes mixed well and sent an exciting shiver down Dreamer’s spine.

He eyed the water as it approached, making slight adjustments to bring them down right in front of the boat. At the last moment they threw their wings out and screeched past either side, maintaining their harmonious tones, to skim the water back towards Berk with woops and cheers on their tails.

* * *

Fishlegs put away his book – not the disorganised mess of notes, this was a first draft structured compilation of knowledge and it was time to test its value. Meatlug shuffled excitedly at his side, her great body radiating warmth against the chill and her claws clicking on the path only recently visible through the melting snow.

He entered the training ring to find Tuffnut sat cross-legged and playing with the Furies. “No. No! Give it back,” he playfully chided, wrestling Toothy for something. Hiccup was sprawled across his lap, on his side and playfully but lethargically waving a paw at the tussle. “Wait your turn! Hey!” Toothy snatched the thing and scooted back, watching Tuffnut with his chest to the ground and hindquarters in the air.

“Hey Tuff, having fun there?”

“Huh? Oh, hey Fish. Yeah, something’s up with these two today... Having trouble putting my finger on it…” He stroked his own chin with one hand, and Hiccup’s with the other, ignoring Toothy strafing around him.

“Sure there’s not just something up with you?” Fishlegs tried, it seemed good in his head but lame the moment he spoke it.

“There’s always something up with me,” Tuffnut replied thoughtfully. “Right now, I can’t, leave, this, ring…”

“Why?”

“…Erm, there _was_ a reason for it. Hang on.” He gently set Hiccup down and casually walked towards the entrance, but in short order Toothy was winding between his legs and Hiccup pounced him from behind so that he tripped and fell. The two Furies then sat on him. “Oh yeah, that’s why. Little help?” Toothy dropped the thing on his head, a slimy brush.

Fishlegs revealed the two salmon he’d brought and slung them across the ring, Tuffnut groaning painfully as the dragons leapt from his back. “That’s weird, they’re not normally this clingy… Are they?”

“They’re not clingy,” Tuffnut replied matter-of-factly. “They just don’t want me to leave. Hel if I know why, but _something’s_ had them spooked for a little while now.” He leaned in closer and spoke quietly. “I think Ruffnut’s ugly face might be getting to them… Sometimes, it even gives _me_ nightmares…”

“Hmph!” Fishlegs stalked past him indignantly, then addressed the two Furies with a short sound to get their attention. _Moment of truth…_ He jerked his chin a little towards his chest, then at the Furies, made a twitchy shrugging motion while flaring his arms out a little, and then tilted his head to the left and remained still.

The little frills on the dragons’ faces went out, and they shared a quick glance with each other, but then stared at him with their heads tilted to the left. _Left, wait which is left, ugh why do I keep mixing those up…_ He pulled out his book again and flipped to ‘head motions’ to check. Left was… ‘general query’. Whoops.

He repeated the actions, but shrugged _twice_ for present tense and then tilted his head _right_ at the end to indicate he was asking a question. He was just so _nervous_ , and he didn’t have wings so was making do. But then, Stormfly didn’t have forelegs so hopefully they were used to interpreting.

Clearly _something_ had got across, they were chittering excitedly between themselves. Hiccup then took a step forward and repeated him, except after flicking his head to his chest, meaning _I_ or _me_ , he swept it across towards Toothy. _That must mean_ we _or_ us, Fishlegs thought excitedly, and pulled out his Dragonese notebook to draw the symbol he’d invented for ‘head’ and a crude line indicating the direction of movement. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it made notes a _lot_ easier.

He realised he’d forgotten to answer as he stashed the book, and shook his head; not laterally like the human _no_ , but in a quick rolling tilt to each side. He felt like he was violently sneezing and it was Hel on his neck, but it had the desired effect.

Hiccup flapped his wings and bounced impatiently while Fishlegs mounted Meatlug, but Toothy went to Tuffnut and tapped a paw on the ground in front of him. “Uh, I think that means ‘stay’,” Fishlegs offered.

“Yeah, kinda got that.” Tuffnut leaned backwards, and Toothy growled and slapped the ground a little harder. “See? Think when you come back, you can ask what’s going on? I’m gonna sneak out, I’m _starving_.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah…” Fishlegs was busy scribbling again, and barely noticed when Meatlug lifted them into the air.

It had only been to initiate contact, asking if they would fly with him was the most complete sentence he could currently say in Dragonese, but it felt like a huge step forward. Stoick was constantly on his case about training the two Furies, Thor only knew why, but as Astrid had said it was proving very difficult to coax them into doing anything they didn’t feel like doing. Looks like they’d trained Tuffnut better than anyone had been able to train them. Hopefully being able to talk to them directly would completely circumvent the need for training, or at least open up new methods, either was good as long as it kept the Chief happy.

Toothy and Hiccup swooped around him, much faster than Meatlug but darting back and forth to stay close. Fishlegs thought of Hiccup flying on the back of Toothless, and the sheer _speed_ they had been going in the fight with the Green Death as they were now calling it. They had been so practised, so sure in their twists and turns. Nothing like safe little Meatlug, simply being a mile in the air was adventurous enough as far as Fishlegs was concerned. Hiccup had clearly been crazy.

 _As crazy as this one_ , he thought as the smaller Night Fury folded both wings and rolled several times in the air before shakily catching himself. He watched Toothy perform the same manoeuvre flawlessly, then repeated it a little better.

They did a lap of the main island, Fishlegs frantically scrawling in three separate notebooks for much of the flight. He kept a wary eye as best he could, but no adult Night Furies came to meet them even when the pair dove with Night Fury screeches – much more timid than Toothless’ – and roared happily at each other. He had so many questions.

When they landed back in the now empty ring – Toothy huffed and grumbled at the gate before returning to his stable – Hiccup barked to get Fishlegs’ attention, a sound that Fishlegs had so far interpreted as ‘want to say something’, then made a sinister pose. He was crouched low, his forelegs padded on the spot, and his teeth were bared. _Huh?_ Fishlegs tilted his head to the left, _what?_

Hiccup looked at him blankly for a moment, then bounded towards Stormfly’s stable, and with a glance back at Fishlegs he crept inside. He only crossed the threshold before turning back, then twitched his chin towards his chest and made the same motion as before.

Fishlegs scratched his cheek. “You’re… in Stormfly’s nest… You’re _intruding_ in her nest! Oh wow, this is going to be so much easier with you guys on board… Wait, the only reason you would be telling me this…” He wanted to be sure, so motioned _I,_ then an approximation of _intrude_ , and walked just inside the Zippleback stable. Hiccup replied _yes_ with a shake of his head.

Hiccup made the motion again, but this time at the entrance to their own nest, then turned to look at him with his head lowered – about half as far as _apology_ – and eyes wide, _pleading_ him.

That explained everything with Tuffnut, but they quickly found Fishlegs’ limits with the language trying to go into more detail. It was so frustrating, neither of them could communicate properly like this, Fishlegs couldn’t ask who it was or what they were doing, and the dragons couldn’t explain to him anyway.

He approached Hiccup and crouched down, laying a hand on his head. “I will find out,” he said as reassuringly as he could, and Hiccup crooned and nuzzled his cheek. _Hmm, that might be ‘thank you’…_ He hopped onto Meatlug and guided her back to the village, still scribbling.

Stoick was at the Thing, but while technically Gobber and Spitelout were in charge this was more in Astrid’s boat. She tasked Fishlegs with learning more Dragonese, and would try to keep an eye on the stables when out flying with Stormfly, the rest of the riders were then brought up to speed and they promised to keep watch as well. Or close enough to. Tuffnut had actually promised to booby-trap the ring and personally do a number of unspeakable things to anyone caught anywhere near the place, and had only stopped when Ruffnut clobbered him.

The Furies seemed keen on teaching him their language. They would go for their early morning flight, return for a nap, then meet him at his house for an hour or so. They had originally used the training ring, but on the second day it had rained and this was easier anyway. He quickly picked up that almost everything relating to actions was body language, while abstract concepts were generally sounds which proved much more difficult both to understand and to speak. Objects could be either or both, so were hit and miss.

He was shown how to count, which was as simple as holding claws _down_ , and used it as a fraction for the time of day. Holding forward two claws on one paw – out of four – while making the motion for sky and the sound for fire – which could only mean sun – meant halfway through the day. For more accurate times they might indicate both paws for a factor of eight. They were then able to tell him the intruder usually appeared at mid-morning, maybe once a week or so, but left nothing tangible.

After a particularly exhausting language lesson a few days after their first conversation, Toothy and Hiccup left only for Hiccup to return a few minutes later, yowling unhappily and scratching at the door. Meatlug had probably gone back to her stable, but Astrid had Stormfly and should be brought along anyway so Hiccup quickly tracked her down and the four of them made the short flight to the ring.

Toothy was snarling at his stable, and when they peeked in it was evident why. Fishlegs made to go in but stopped and tilted his head, remembering to the _right_ to ask a question, and was given permission to retrieve the fat eel. The way Toothy was reacting, Fishlegs was holding the physical manifestation of the most offensive insult to his mother, and Hiccup was gagging. Even Stormfly, settled near the entrance to the ring, bared her teeth and shied back. They _really_ didn’t like these things. If only they’d known that decades, _centuries_ ago…

While things had clearly escalated, this still didn’t give them a single lead to go on. The knowledge had been passed to farmers and anyone else still having problems with wild dragons, mostly those with property on the island proper, and they could have told anybody. The eels themselves were easy to get hold of, simply being part of the distribution of food to everyone in the village.

Fishlegs exited the arena to sling the eel into the ocean, then returned to confer with Astrid. They were both very protective of the little Furies and what – who – they represented, and their faces were cold and hard. The Furies themselves seemed remarkably calm about it, though the perpetrator seemed more interested in scaring or making them uncomfortable than going for actual harm.

“Can you smell the intruder, track them?” Astrid asked the pair, but just got blank stares back.

 _Hmm._ Fishlegs motioned _you, smell, intruder, question_.

He apparently needed to learn a new word first, as Hiccup trotted to their stable and motioned _I_ , then made a word by angling his head and tail out to the same side while humming calmly.

“That’s your stable, your– your nest!” He pointed towards Berk and repeated the actions.

 _Yes_ , Hiccup replied, then _we, no, smell, intruder, nest_.

There could be a lot of reasons for that, but Berk’s most vocal anti-dragon activist didn’t live in the village. “That’s very helpful, thanks little guy,” he said as he approached to give the little Fury a firm two-handed scratch behind his ears, and Hiccup crooned and stretched into the gesture. Of course, he didn’t forget to jot down _nest_ , though that was trickier as he was still having to describe sounds.

It took him a few moments to notice Astrid looming over him. Well, Stormfly was looming over him and flexing her tail spines, though he wasn’t sure which of the two was more intimidating. “Uh, they can’t smell the intruder in the village,” he blurted out.

“Well, that makes a certain rat muncher a lot more interesting, but we still need to find something _solid_. Not that we weren’t already keeping an eye on him, so really we’re no further.” Astrid’s voice was tense and frustrated, and Fishlegs could only nod glumly. It was a breakthrough, but nonetheless they were no further than they had been. “Still, we can confirm it’s him, though it won’t be considered proof. I’ll… _obtain_ something and we’ll check with the Furies that it’s the same scent.”

He probably should have thought of that, but he was still excited at practically applying Dragonese. As long as one of them thought of the important stuff, right?

Astrid found him later that evening and brought him to the training ring to translate, where she gingerly pulled out a scrap of cloth that had been cut from something. It turned out she didn’t need him to translate, the growls spoke for themselves. Fishlegs and Astrid stared darkly at each other, not needing to voice the name; _Mildew_. It was only confirming their suspicions, but it posed a problem because his isolation meant nobody ever knew where he was. He was an intelligent and careful man, and the best dragon hunter in memory for some thirty years before age left him hobbled. Reaching old age itself was unheard of for such avid fighters.

They talked it over while the Furies wrestled, and decided the best thing they could do was _ensure_ that at least one person or dragon was in the stables at all times. It would dissuade him from further harassing the Furies in their nest, and if he changed tactics he might slip up.

Now they could only wait and see.

* * *

Stoick stared over the melting ocean from the prow of his ship, concern set into his features. At last year’s Thing, many had scoffed at his claim that the dragon raids would slow if not cease completely, particularly the Berserker aids if not Oswald himself. At this year’s Thing, everyone had taken him _much_ more seriously.

Berk hadn’t suffered a single raid, and the other Chieftains had confirmed similar stories. There were still wild dragons that would occasionally attack fishing boats or travellers, but they now had no interest in the Viking settlements. Stoick hadn’t been sure what that would mean for the non-aggression pact, but all the Chiefs there had agreed to maintain it. There were others they could raid, and none much felt like fighting each other.

Which would have been all well and good, had the Berserkers been one of those present.

Oswald the Agreeable lived up to his name, but there were rumours of rumours. _Something_ had happened, everyone agreed on that, but nobody yet knew what. It had made everyone nervous; the Berserkers were notoriously bloodthirsty, and though they were a splintered tribe they would be formidable if united.

He looked forward to seeing the Furies again, to feeling something akin to warmth in his heart, and to remind himself that Berk wasn’t defenceless. Hopefully they would have their fire soon, there was a very real chance Berk would need that incredible ranged firepower, though training them was apparently not going well. Hmph, if Hiccup left ‘such detailed notes’ then Fishlegs should be able to work it out.

Sighing, Stoick pinched the bridge of his nose. This spring would be just as tense as usual.

* * *

The skies above Berk were a patchwork of clouds and misting rain, the tiny drops glittering where the sunlight struck them. From up here it was fascinating to watch the rain fall down to the ocean and islands, so different to fly through and around than to stand in.

With a flick of a wing before tucking both in tight, Dreamer quickly rolled several times in the air before gracefully catching himself, then did the same in the other direction just as flawlessly. _Yes!_ _Finally!_ He’d been having much more trouble with the clockwise roll.

He wiggled proudly at Wanderer, who perked out all his frills in a Nightstriker smile. Then Wanderer’s mouth curled up into a mischievous grin, and he flapped ahead a little to perform the same manoeuvre – during a backflip. The drag pulled him back, and he tidily caught himself dead even with Dreamer. He still had the exact same smile, as if it had never left his face, but now it was smug.

Dreamer glared at him. _Show off_.

In the distance he could see the sea stacks they had wildly careened through during their first real flight together, where they had cemented their strange friendship in a medley of trust, adrenaline, and fear. He was confident with catching himself now, time to try something he’d always been curious about…

He took a deep breath… and folded his left tail fin.

…

Nothing happened. His tail was a little heavier, but he remained level in the air and could compensate for the twist his lopsided tail was trying to pull him into. _Huh._ His mind was frantically searching for what he was missing, Wanderer was a much better flyer and it had completely crippled him.

Automatically, without thought, he flapped – _that_ was when things went wrong. His body rose, but his tail didn’t. The unbalanced drag twisted him to the side where his wings couldn’t compensate or hold the air properly, and the more he flapped to correct himself the worse it got until he was practically in freefall. He wrestled with the air trying to get his wings upright, but they wouldn’t work properly without that one tiny fin, his heavy tail kept dragging him down.

He saw Wanderer diving next to him, wings flared a little to keep level with Dreamer and _concern_ all over his face. _Oops_ , he probably should have warned his friend what he was doing. It was quite clear he wasn’t getting anywhere anyway, so he opened all his fins and easily regained control.

Bleeding some of their momentum into elevation, they levelled out next to each other. “What you do?” Wanderer asked.

Dreamer angled a little so Wanderer could see him twitch his left tail fin. “Fly with one tail-fin.” Wanderer barked a laugh at that, and threw himself into several complex manoeuvres. Well, at least he found his personal maiming amusing.

The guilt bit Dreamer harder than ever. It had been a time of war, they were on opposite sides and Wanderer had done _far_ worse to them, but he still felt bad. It seemed a good time to go through some things; teaching Fishlegs their language – _Dragonese_ , he’d called it – had improved his own fluency.

So after rolling on the damp stone of the training arena, more for the pleasant sensation than actually cooling off from their flight, he broached the first topic eating at him. “Before we friends… when you attack this nest… when you grounded–“

“Yes, I know that you. I see you in that dive, smell you on… thing that hit me.” Wanderer was giving Dreamer his attention, but he spoke nonchalantly. This really didn’t matter to him.

“I know it silly… our nests were fighting, but feel bad for your tail-fin. I very sorry.”

Wanderer barely let Dreamer’s nose touch the floor before nuzzling under his chin, lifting it in _forgiveness_ and purring _happy, safe_. He’d known in his head Wanderer wasn’t angry or upset about it, but this helped him to accept it in his heart.

Belatedly he remembered to check for Fishlegs – their conversations were no longer private behind a language barrier – but it was just paranoia, there was nobody peeking over the rim of the ring and none of the Long-Paw smells were fresh. Only Meatlug dozed lazily in her den, her back to them, and Dreamer had learned that their language was much simpler than the Nightstrikers’ and she wouldn’t understand even if she did eavesdrop.

It still had him a little rattled, so he motioned to their den to take the conversation there. Feeling a bit more secure, tucked away as they were, he had something else nagging at him. “Need know… I… same Dreamer? Not Nightstriker with Dreamer memory? How I change?”

Wanderer paused to think before speaking. “I not know what me, what you. I know I Wanderer, you Dreamer. We friends, fly together always. Not need know more.” When he saw this was not enough for Dreamer, he continued. “We not can create new life without female, new body… empty. I think you Dreamer.”

As reassuring as it was, Dreamer couldn’t shake the idea that he was a copy, just Hiccup’s memories plastered over a Nightstriker shell. He tried to put that thought aside, but felt it lurking in the back of his mind. As it had been for a while already, he realised.

He shuffled up to nestle under Wanderer’s wing, not unlike he had in the last few days they’d spent in the cove before his sire had returned. The nights he’d slept under dragon wing had been the most restful and peaceful he’d ever known as Hiccup, and he needed some of that comfort now. _Whoever I am, I am me,_ he told himself. He could almost believe it.

…

“Wait, _we?_ I can make new body?”

 _Chuff_. “You Nightstriker now. I not see why not.”

Dreamer wasn’t sure he wanted to know… but… “How?”

Wanderer crooned thoughtfully. “Nightstrikers learn when firelings… You not have hatchling-mind, but you hatchling Nightstriker. One night, when you ready, I tell.” That was both frustrating and a relief.

It was still light, but they’d been flying hard, Wanderer was purring _sleep_ and lightly grooming him, and it felt so good to obey his heavy eyelids…

* * *

Reclining in a creaky armchair and shuffling to comfortably fit his bones against the wood, Mildew allowed himself a small smile. What he had set in motion for tonight was just the beginning, in a few weeks he would have the whole village riled up enough that he could kill those unholy abominations himself and be celebrated for it, just like the old days.

They had seemed unfazed by having their filthy nest painted in hostile smells, or they were just particularly stubborn beasts. Perhaps the eel had been a bit far, but those brats somehow seemed wary and had been limiting his access. Well, it was a riskless play, no harm done. Ohh, to be ten years younger, he would have simply skewered the scaly rats and tossed the bodies into the sea, but these days he wasn’t spry enough to be dodging fireballs.

No matter. He could whisper from the shadows, putting voice to the dark thoughts that everyone still harboured towards the beasts, and have others do the dirty work for him. There would be nothing linking him to events.

He laced his fingers behind his head and watched the door, waiting patiently for Stoick the Dimwit to blunder in with a list of allegations and no evidence.

* * *

There was the usual racket in the fuggy Great Hall while dinner was served, but long years of carrying water buckets during dragon raids honed the ability to pick up one very specific word over any din.

“Fire!”

Similarly, the appropriate response was drilled in deep, and even after all this time Astrid had vaulted the table and was halfway out the huge doors before she consciously processed what was going on. The thick smoke was the first thing she saw, lit from below by the torches down the path, and as she neared she could see the hazy light spilling from the open door of a small storehouse.

Grabbing a bucket from the nearest fire station, she muttered a curse as she found the barrel empty. They’d gotten lazy with no fires to fight. She blasphemed at the second station, and the third, but finally at the fourth station she knocked on the barrel and was rewarded by a dull _dok_. “Water here!” she shouted, grimacing at her shrill voice. Thankfully she didn’t need to shriek orders too, _everyone_ had been on fire duty at some point and knew what to do.

She quickly handed out buckets, filling them in moments from the broad tap and there was soon a steady stream of people rushing back and forth. Those in nearby homes were also pulling out any water they had on hand.

After filling countless buckets and all but draining the barrel, the trail of people stopped, and she stretched her stiff back before striding back to investigate. Stoick was already there, towering over a balding man, so Astrid did her best to peer inside at the damage.

Thick smoke billowed around inside, but what she could see of the small storehouse did not look good. It had taken too long to get the water, and the fire had spread quickly. The damage was worst where a pile of weapons had been – now just hiltless lumps of black iron next to a charred hole in the wall – but had spread to the barrels of preserved meats. Some of the barrels had split and spilled their contents to the ground to be ruined by the flames, thankfully there was no shortage these days but it had still been good food.

“Astrid,” her name piqued her attention just before Stoick’s giant hand rested on her shoulder. “You better handle this one.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, but nodded and strode to the man he’d been interrogating, doing her best to mimic Stoick’s chiefly authority. She seemed to manage, the man was slightly taller than her and twice as broad but eyed her uncertainly as she approached. She stopped a pace away, folded her arms, and stared at him expectantly.

He didn’t speak, just pointed at a nearby house. It took her a moment, but she quickly picked out the four bright green eyes staring from the roof.

“You saw them?” she growled, but he only nodded and remained silent. She continued staring, making a slight motion with her hand for him to proceed, but he stared flatly back at her. _This is going nowhere…_ She stopped trying to mimic Stoick and threw on her own brand of authority, one borne of working with dragons and better suited to the heat starting to boil through her body. “Give me your own words for it,” she snarled, setting her stance and bristling.

“I… saw them enter… blue lights… they flamed it,” he stammered, thrown off by the sudden change.

“Hah, ac–“ Fishlegs started, Astrid hadn’t even seen him there, but she whirled her ire towards him and he cut off, going white.

“Anybody else see it?” she called to the crowd, and a few hands went up. “Over here.” She waved them all towards a clear space opposite the storehouse with her axe – she couldn’t even remember drawing it – and spoke in a slow seriousness but remained offensively postured. “You all give your word that you saw the two Night Furies set fire to this storehouse, as accounted by this man?” She pointed her axe to the first witness.

They were all a little less sure, being put on the spot like this, but none of them moved away. She eyed over the four men and two women, knowing their type; old, grizzled, mangy hair, tattered clothes, most sporting missing limbs or hideous scars or both. One of the women had hollow, sunken eyes. Astrid didn’t like to be prejudiced, but these people all had signs of being hurt by dragons, and being from smaller clans or no clan at all. The same type she’d been dealing with constantly while integrating Stormfly and the other dragons into the village.

“Everyone who housed the Furies over winter, there,” she pointed down one direction of the street, “and everyone else over there,” she pointed the other direction. People were confused, but moved quickly enough when they met her gaze.

There were maybe twenty people present who had hosted the dragons, including many of her own family, and she addressed them directly. “Have any of you seen the two Night Furies use their fire at all?” Aside from a stiff shuffling to her side, there was dead silence. “Stoick?” His eyebrows went up and he shook his head. Astrid stole a glance at the ‘witnesses’ and stifled a sadistic grin. “Has _anyone_ seen them use their fire?” she called, turning to the third group. Silence. “ _Now_ , Fishlegs.”

“Right, um, well, as many of you know they almost froze in the stable when winter came, Hiccup got very sick as a result. If they’d had their fire that wouldn’t have been a problem. We do know from last year–“ He had the decency to pause and look abashed at that that, “–uh, other dragons can flame right after hatching or shortly afterwards, but Night Furies are a whole other class. So much about them is just so different, they’re developing much more slowly and right now it looks like neither of them can flame anything.”

“I know what I saw,” the first witness sneered. It was a safe bluff, proving the dragons _couldn’t_ do something was near impossible.

She needed to bluff bigger. She took a deep breath, quenching her rage at these blatant lies, and casually spun her axe in her hands. “Look, just make this easier on yourselves. We know they wouldn’t do it, and we know they _couldn’t_ do it. We also know who’s been stirring up trouble for them, and this,” she waved her axe at the storehouse, “is a _serious_ crime, as is false accusation _even_ to a dragon.

She started talking more cheerfully. “So, tell you what, you tell us what _actually_ happened, who put you up to it, because I _know_ you guys didn’t come up with this, and you’ll be scrubbing pots for the rest of spring. _Or_ , you stick to your story, and _when_ this comes crashing down around you we’ll float you out to sea on a raft.”

Silence.

 _Ugh_. Astrid took a few steps to the side and made a covert signal with her hand, and two and a half thousand pounds of hissing dragon dropped out of the night to slam into a low crouch next to her.

“Mildew!” one of the men shrieked. _Works every time._

The woman with sunken eyes decked him. “She threa’ens us with a _dragon_ , the very thing we’re fightin’, and you sell us out!?”

“I didn’t sign up for exile!” he roared back, shoving her away. “And at least we aint _dyin’_ to ‘em anymore!”

Astrid tuned out the spat and let Spitelout take it from there, returning to Stoick. “I, er, hope I didn’t overstep my bounds there sir…” she mumbled quietly.

“A little,” he conceded, “but you got results. Good work. Fishlegs!” They waited for the boy to waddle over. “We’re going to pay the old wart a visit, and I might need yeh as witness.”

“Now?” Fishlegs squeaked. Astrid shrugged at him.

* * *

“Water,” Dreamer repeated, dipping a claw into the bowl sat next to him on the table, dimly lit by the daylight streaming in through the open door.

“Sea,” gurgled Fishlegs.

Dreamer shook his paw and motioned towards the door. “Sea.” He dipped his claw back into the bowl. “Water.”

Fishlegs scratched his head and made a few more notes, then successfully repeated, “Water.” _Finally_.

“Yes,” Dreamer chuffed, unable to keep the relief from his expression, then lapped from the bowl – this was thirsty work – and said “Drink.”

“Water-food.”

Dreamer groaned. It felt like they’d been at this for hours, as they had for many days, and while they were making excellent progress overall it was starting to wear. “We rest,” he mumbled, and scooted over to annoy the lazy Wanderer.

Teaching Dragonese to Fishlegs had its updrafts and turbulence, Long-Paws couldn’t easily make some of the required sounds and in some cases differentiating between different sounds was difficult for the boy. Today it was worse than usual, Fishlegs was antsy about something and kept getting distracted. He was now mumbling to himself, a confusing tangle of emotions saying _sorry, concern, uncertainty, resolve, fear_. Something had him shaken up. Maybe that thing with the storehouse? He’d left with Astrid on Stormfly, and Meatlug had been gone when the Nightstrikers returned to their den, but that had been days ago and he’d been fine until today.

 _Not much to do about it_ , Dreamer thought and busied himself with tickling Wanderer’s _adorable_ little paws to rouse him from his dozing; punishment for abstaining from all the work. Dreamer returned the tired glare with an innocent smile.

Wanderer got up to raid the food basket, snapping down some fish and bringing back a few to drop on the table. After gulping them down, Dreamer rested his head on his paws with a sigh and started to doze off. He could really do with a nap, apparently his fledgling body required a lot of rest, but Fishlegs was still talking and something about the _trepidation_ in his voice attracted attention.

“…ard Stoyk whans too dcok yuor tial fnss sohh wee cn trian yoo lihk Too’hsss.”

…

Dreamer’s eyes snapped open.


	6. Assertion

_And Stoick wants to dock your tail fins so we can train you like Toothless_

Panic seized control and Dreamer vaulted to his paws – instantly realising his mistake as Fishlegs rounded on him, staring in a mix of disbelief, bewilderment, and anger. Wanderer had also bounced up, reacting to the sudden tension, and was growling a warning with his claws digging into the table.

“Queit, Too’hess,” Fishlegs snapped without taking his eyes off Dreamer, and the growl snagged and silenced.

The blood drained from Dreamer’s limbs as reality sank in, and his head swam in the abrupt crash from his adrenaline high. Swaying, he raised a paw to his head. “H… How?”

Fishlegs rolled his eyes. “Yoo’re lfft hadned,” he growled, pointing at Dreamer’s paw, his _left_ paw, still held to his head. “T’en… ay _llohtt_ hof ‘hingsss.”

Dreamer squeezed his eyes shut and pawed at his ear, then drew mock runes in the air. Fishlegs nodded darkly and fetched a sheet of parchment and a pot of ink, practically throwing them at the table.

Still struggling to stay steady, Dreamer winced and dipped a claw in the ink.

EARS SENSITIVE. PLEASE TALK SLOWLY AND

…He paused, the word ‘calmly’ would likely… not have the desired effect.

FLATLY

Fishlegs glowered, but then took a deep breath and sat back in his chair.  Dreamer started breathing again; the boy had an _enormous_ presence when riled. “Hel’s bluhdy nikkers Hiccarp, whyy didnn’t youu _telll_ anneewahn? Theyy alll thhinkk youu aar deadd.”

The parchment was awkward to write on and limited in size, so he used Dragonese when he could. “They not understand. They–” FEAR DRAGON MAGIC. “We not know–“ HOW THEY WOULD REACT.

The glower turned into a scowl. “Thattss nott youur caall too maek. Theyy _haff_ too knoww.”

“No!” The word was made by swiping a paw sideways, and Dreamer’s claws left thick gouges in the table. He dipped his head to the side in a short _apology_ and repeated himself less destructively.

“Wai?” Fishlegs shouted a little too loudly, throwing his arms up.

WHY TELL? “I not think I–“ CAN BE TURNED BACK.

His claws were awkward and he had to write large and rough, so he was already out of space. He flipped the parchment and started scratching out each rune. “You know. You feel good for know?” he asked while he worked.

“Ay darnno!” he exclaimed, but seeing Dreamer cringe he took another deep breath to calm himself. “Wee gavfe yuor body a sendawff. Yourr daad wass _devfasstated_.”

Finished, he licked his claw clean – blegh – and tapped the runes. NOW HE IS HEALING AND KNOWING THIS WON’T HELP.

“Baat haow did ‘hiss evfenn _khapppenn!?_ ”

QUIET AND FLAT, he tapped out slowly before pawing his ear again. I HATCHED LIKE THIS WITH NO MEMORY. GOT IT BACK BEFORE WI–

“Whenn you appeared…” Fishlegs mumbled. It seemed backwards that the quieter he talked, the easier he was to understand.

YES. THAT IS ALL I KNOW. It was pretty clear who had changed him, but he felt it best not to personally incriminate Wanderer. PLEASE DON’T SAY. “Please.”

Fishlegs let out a wordless and frustrated sound. “ _Fiyne._ Ay’ll thinkk abowt it.”

 _No no no_ , if Stoick found out… TELL ANYONE … WE LEAVE.

“Yoo woodent! Yeew _could’t!_ ”

He just stared at the boy determinedly until he slumped and massaged his head. Wanderer was still anxiously looking between them so Dreamer stepped over to nuzzle him, crooning _safe_.

“Yoo guys arr… _orfully_ cloes…”

He pulled the parchment over. WE HAVE BEEN THROUGH A LOT.

Fishlegs gave him a flat look, _no duh_.

“No say me. Please.”

“Fiiiiiyne. Stihl thinkk youu shood telll Astrehd at leest.”

IT BETTER EVERYONE THINKS I AM IN VALHALLA. I AM A NIGHT FURY NOW. LET ME HAVE THIS.

“Yoo… _whan_ too bee ay Naight Fyoory?”

Dreamer shrugged, as best he could manage with four legs and no arms. I AM ONE NOW.

Nodding slowly, Fishlegs pulled out a small notebook and reluctantly set it on the table. Dreamer flipped it open to the first page to find a decent sketch of him and Wanderer playing. In the drawing he was holding up a paw, and the words ‘LEFT HANDED’ were carefully scratched next to it.

It listed events that happened before then, as early as when he’d opened the door after first appearing in the village. Things Dreamer innately knew but Wanderer didn’t and vice versa. These were all Fishlegs’ notes on a crazy idea he couldn’t get out of his head.

His eyes widened as he really understood what he had been given, not only all the evidence but a way to understand how to better hide his identity. He probably wouldn’t need it – Fishlegs was in a unique position of intelligence, imagination, and familiarity – but it would be wise to be cautious.

“Thank you,” he warbled – without the nuzzle – but Fishlegs waved it off. He closed the book and grabbed it in one of his hind-paws for safekeeping. Hmm, he might as well use this opportunity to explain a few things. “We get fire at five.” WE WILL APPARENTLY WANT TO LEAVE BERK THEN.

Fishlegs’ raised an eyebrow. “Goeng tu finde sohm laydey drahguns?”

Dreamer smacked himself in the face. “No.”

“Yoor dhad whants you too stay, wants yoo trianed. Hees insisstent. What do ay tell heem?”

His earlier panic flared again, and he protectively tucked his tail in behind his forelegs. “He not…?” It was a massive relief when the boy shook his head… but that had been a _really_ dirty trick. Clamping down on a growl, he considered the question. “Say we can talk. Say when we get fire.” IF IMPORTANT YOU KNOW WE’LL HELP BUT WE ARE _NOT PETS_. He put enough emphasis on the last two words that he punctured the parchment.

“Thass… ffair,” Fishlegs nodded.

I DO NOT WANT TO LEAVE, BUT INSTINCT MAYBE, AND I OWE HIM, he nodded at Wanderer, MORE THAN I OWE BERK.

“ _Tooth’hess?_ But–…” Dreamer wasn’t sure if it was his realisation that cut him off, or Wanderer’s short indignant growl at his old name. Either way he remained quiet.

…TOLD HIM HIS NAME. HE IS WANDERER, “Wanderer,” I AM … DREAMER. “…Dreamer.”

It felt strange to announce his new name, and Fishlegs was staring blankly at the parchment with his head resting on his fingertips. This was clearly getting a bit much for them both, time to wrap things up. NORSE HARD TO HEAR. LEARN DRAGONESE. He then dug his claws into the parchment and crumpled it in his paw. Letting the objections bounce off him unintelligibly, he just tilted his head with his frills out until Fishlegs crossed his arms with a grumble.

Remembering the writing on the back, Dreamer hopped down to the floor and poked the corner of the parchment into the fire so that it burned in his paw. He stared at the flames licking his scales, still incredulous at his fire resistance. That just left the book, still in his hind-claws, which he had to read first.

He needed to digest all this himself so padded over to the door, the book a little awkward under his paw, and warbled a farewell. Fishlegs just glared sourly off to the side; did he even realise this was _exactly_ the reason nobody should know? _Hopefully he’ll come around_ , Dreamer thought to himself as he stepped out into the bright sunlight, Wanderer following a little closer than usual.

They flapped over the docks and into the training ring, Dreamer awkwardly landing directly in their little cave. He looked at the notebook, but it put a vile feeling in his gut so he tucked it away out of sight for now. _Hopefully… this won’t change anything_ …

* * *

“Daffnut, _what_ did I tell you about pulling ears,” Tuffnut scolded his cousin from where he sat cross-legged on the ground. Toothy didn’t seem to mind the toddlers’ curious hands, and playfully nudged the laughing boy to the grass to lick his face, but it was probably best to discourage certain habits. A second child roared an impressive challenge and charged, and the three chased each other in a medley of playful and happy shouts.

The third toddler happily climbed over Hiccup, who was staring vacantly into the distance. “Hey Hiccy, you alright? You normally love this.” The dragon blinked and stared at him a moment, then seemed to notice the burbling little girl hugging his neck. “C’mon, come tell me about it,” he cooed, beckoning.

Hiccup gently freed himself of the child and hesitantly padded over, allowing himself to be scooped up and bundled into Tuffnut’s lap. Sometimes he had these little episodes and just needed some reassurance, though he’d been growing steadily since winter and now barely fit. “There there, you’re okay,” Tuffnut murmured, protectively hunching over his charge as it curled up. Rather than whimper or purr, however, Hiccup fidgeted uncomfortably for a few moments then backed out. He gave his head a shake and stared apologetically. “Okay… Take all the time you need little guy. I’m here for you, alright?”

The little Fury chuffed quietly at him and shook out his wings, but seemed to change his mind and folded them back up. When Toothy pulled himself past, dragging two laughing boys hanging from his tail, he changed his mind again and took off.

“Guh, guh, guh… Dwaaagon! Come gaaak!” cried the little girl, staring after him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tuffnut saw Toothy shake off the boys and spread his wings. “No, Toothy, leave him be,” he called, and the dragon paused. “He needs time to himself for now. _Yes_ that includes from you.” The grumbling Fury tucked away his wings and trotted to the sad little girl to snuffle her face. “Hey! Don’t you give me attitude, mister.”

Toothy’s response was to get his head under the girl, lift her up, and deposit the now giggling child into Tuffnut’s lap. “Oh, _thanks_. What am I supposed to do with this?” But she seemed happy enough to watch Toothy chase the boys around, so Tuffnut awkwardly set her down next to him and they both watched the dragon play.

* * *

Stoick sighed, leaning on his elbow to rub his head; his eyes were suddenly taking offense to the afternoon sunlight streaming through the door. He had been expecting something like this since Johann’s departure, but hoped they’d at least have more time. “Get everyone using a bow. _Everyone_ who can draw. Have the fletchers working overtime–“

“Fletch _er,_ ” Spitelout corrected, and Stoick sighed again. Arrows weren’t much use against dragons so they’d never bothered with them for more than hunting.

“Get him an apprentice or however many he needs. I want thirty arrows for every warrior. And make sure they’ve all got bows.”

“Yeh can’t be serious–“

“ _Deadly_ ,” Stoick growled.

Spitelout rocked back a little. “Are yeh _tha’_ sure? ‘Cause tha’s six _thousand_ arrows, and Johann’s not due back fer months. Unless we raid the south, we’ll have ter start meltin’ _weapons_ for tha’ much iron.”

Stoick hadn’t needed a block of ice for a headache since the dragons stopped attacking, but tonight he might need a few.

A quiet knock on the door had them both look up to find Fishlegs standing in the doorway, and Stoick stood up to greet him before his eyes could adjust. “Ah, Fishlegs, good to see you. How goes it with the Furies?” He led him to stand a short distance from the house while they talked.

When the boy spoke it was with weight beyond his years, and there was none of his usual eagerness. He sounded exhausted. “…Good. I can talk to him. _Them_. We can talk to each other. If we need them to do something, I can just ask.”

Stoick eyed him, _this_ was his big project? It was _incredible_ , but for being able to _talk to dragons_ it was a wonder his feet were still on the ground. “Are you okay lad?”

“Yeah… Just…” There was a long pause before he spoke again. “Just tired. We made some breakthroughs yesterday. He’s–… They’re as smart as people. More or less… Not only do we not need to train them, I don’t think we even can. Or should.”

“You’re right,” Stoick sighed, “I should have known that. I’m sorry. But even when I gave you an impossible task, you found a way to _pull it off_. I can’t tell you how proud you should be.”

“…Yeah… That’s the other thing. They can’t shoot fire for another four _years_.”

Stoick’s breath caught in his throat. He’d had no intention of actually _using_ the Furies, only if absolutely necessary and even then from a safe distance, but it was another arrow in the quiver. It just… had no arrowhead… _Hmm_. “Alright then. Get some rest, then come see me in a few days. Bring Astrid, I’ve got another job for you.”

Fishlegs nodded and shuffled off, and Stoick returned to his house. “Ah hope you got better news from him,” Spitelout said casually, resolving into form as eyes adjusted to the darkness again.

“You could say that,” Stoick laughed quietly, “he can talk to dragons.”

Spitelout’s eyebrows disappeared behind his helmet. “Ohhh, so we got a bona fide _dragon whisperer_ now? Well _that’ll_ come in handy.” Stoick wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic, or come to think of it, whether he was right.

“Maybe… Let’s pay the fletcher a visit.” He took a last moment to examine the damp sheet of sail laid out on the table, sporting the Berk crest cloven neatly in two.

* * *

Wanderer lay the fish on the floor of their den. “Eat.”

“I not hungry,” Dreamer grumbled back.

Wanderer nudged the fish a little closer, then nudged Dreamer until he raised his head. “Two nights, you not eat… Please…”

Dreamer sniffed the fish, but grimaced and curled up again. “Not can eat.”

Whining worriedly, Wanderer pulled the fish back a bit. “Other food? Land-prey? Small-ground-prey?”

“No.”

It was trickier as a fledgling, but Wanderer started pulling up his own dinner. The partly digested fish would be much easier on a sore stomach, but when Dreamer growled he let it slide back down. Whining again, Wanderer nestled in next to him and gently nuzzled his shoulder.

“Go fly,” Dreamer mumbled as he lethargically shuffled away. “I… I rest.”

Wanderer let out another whine. “I come back soon. Say if want anything.” The groaned response was both _sad-pain_ and _pain-sad_. He padded slowly to the mouth of the den, giving Dreamer a long, concerned look from the threshold, then shook his wings out and jumped into the air.

His eyes squeezed shut against the wind. He just wished he knew what was wrong, it hurt so much to watch Dreamer like this.

 _Deep breaths_ … The cool air filled Wanderer’s lungs, and he opened his eyes to find himself a little further from the nest than he’d thought he was. He didn’t even notice his wings make the adjustments to turn him back, his mind was somewhere further up in the thin air. He barely even noticed the Long-Paw-tree-thing floating from the small-land, or the flames dancing on it.

The smaller Nightstriker didn’t _smell_ sick, he just looked and sounded it. Last light Wanderer’s presence and affection had seemed to comfort Dreamer, and he’d done his best to show as much as he could. He even managed to snag a few blades of sweet-grass from the field, but it’d had no effect and things had only grown more turbulent since. This light, Dreamer had pushed away all attempts to comfort him. _Deep breaths…_

…Hrrmm, the fire on the tree-thing was getting bigger. Long-Paws didn’t normally like fire except in certain places, and this wasn’t one of those places, but there were Long-Paws lined up and watching from the tree-ground near the water. Curious, and hoping to take his mind off his troubles for a few moments, he drifted down and landed quietly behind the crowd.

Most held their heads high, but all held themselves with some degree of sadness. This must be another strange Long-Paw ritual. He weaved through the forest of legs to the front, looking around at the damp faces staring out to sea, but was soon accosted by a female Long-Paw dropping down next to him and wrapping her forelegs around his neck.

Wanderer fought off the initial panic, knowing this wasn’t an attack, and went still when the female began exhaling in short, sharp bursts. This was a Long-Paw very-sad-thing, he remembered, and with so many so sad he could only surmise a nest-kin had died. He offered her a quiet warble, and draped a wing over her shoulders while she grieved. He wasn’t all that familiar with Long-Paws, but guessed she was a pawful of cycles older than Dreamer had been. Dreamer, who was now miserable and sick in a way Wanderer didn’t understand.

He leaned into the Long-Paw, drawing small comfort from her even as she drew it from him, and they watched the flames in the warm glow of the fading sky-fire until the water consumed them.

The Long-Paw’s breathing slowly became steady, and she stayed with him when everybody else started moving. With a purr of _gratitude_ laced with _sorrow_ , she stood and followed the last of the other Long-Paws. Strangely, the overall mood had changed and was instead now mostly _happy_ and _excited_ , though still with solemn undertones. Wanderer thought he picked out a few of the words they had for food as well. It made him curious about the Long-Paw ritual, maybe he should ask Dreamer about it.

His head hung and his wings drooped. If this was that a nest-kin had died, it would likely not help Dreamer to know of it…

Wanderer stretched out his wings and took off, wheeling a few times in the darkening sky before swooping back to the den. Both Dreamer and the fish were exactly where he left them. He snapped up the fish himself – no sense letting it rot – and sidled up as close to Dreamer as he could without actually touching him. When there was no response to a gentle nuzzle, Wanderer sighed and rested his head on his paws, waiting for sleep to claim him. All he could do was show Dreamer he was there for him.

* * *

Dreamer wasn’t _hiding_ , exactly… He just found the bustling breakfasts in the smoky Great Hall a bit of a comfort to observe. From atop a shadowy support brace near the ceiling. He just felt a little uneasy with the attention Wanderer was trying to give him was all, he really wasn’t hungry for the fish he brought, and he really didn’t find the grooming relaxing.

At least the worst was behind him. For nearly three days he’d eaten nothing and barely had the strength to relieve himself outside the den. That was just over a week ago. Now he was managing a moderate fish at noon, when his stomach was a little more settled, and that kept him full for the rest of the day. Well, he felt full, though he knew he should really be eating three times that at the bare minimum. He just… couldn’t. His body told him it was full and refused to accept more, even as it starved and withered.

He didn’t want to cuddle, he didn’t want to play, he didn’t even want to fly. What he wanted was to work the forge, to invent and tinker, Hel at this point he’d be happy just sharpening a pile of weapons and bantering with Gobber. That was how he’d dealt with these feelings before; force himself to do something productive, that _needed_ doing for the good of the village. Now he felt more useless than ever. _Ha ha ha, look at Hiccup the Useless, got himself turned into a dragon, can’t even sharpen a knife anymore. He did enough damage trying to be a Viking, what can he break trying to be a dragon?_

The looks he got from Fishlegs were… understandable. Dreamer would feel very awkward cooing and doting over any of the other teens even if they _were_ in a different body. He wondered why he’d felt so comfortable _being_ doted on so far. _You two are awfully close…_ The words probably weren’t meant to be judgemental, and Dreamer tried not to take it personally, but he groaned and cringed at all the nuzzling and licking he’d done. He’d just been behaving like any dragon, but… What did Fishlegs think of the big lick Dreamer had given him over winter? Of him and Toothless grooming each other every night? What did he think of Toothless, knowing what he’d done?

 _Why couldn’t I have just told someone when I got my memory back. It would have been better, for everyone…_ He tried to imagine Astrid’s response, telling him to pick himself back up, but it was becoming less and less effective. It just took so much energy trying to be happy, and he wasn’t sure he could be bothered anymore. It was no one thing, really, that had his gut sucking out all his strength and his skin itching from stress. It was a pile of little things all adding up, and Fishlegs violently piercing his bubble of anonymity had been the trigger.

Around and around he went, a wild maelstrom of thoughts with no reprieve. It was so frustrating. Logically he knew nothing had changed, he was still a cute baby dragon and nobody, other than now Fishlegs, knew who he was. And yet, just that one piece of knowledge with one person had completely shattered his peace with himself. At least the realisation that he was left-handed, even before getting his memories back, contradicted his irrational fear that he was just a copy of Hiccup’s memories. That thought was some small relief even if it didn’t entirely banish the doubts.

He flattened himself against the wood and shut his eyes when a dark shape passed through the doors of the Great Hall, but in vain. Wanderer flapped up and gave his head a brief nuzzle, ignoring the groan it elicited. “Good winds... Come fly…?”

Dreamer grunted and let his wings drop to either side of the brace. When there was silence, he glanced up at– _oh no that was a mistake_. But it was too late, he couldn’t look away. Toothless was hunched over and _pleading_ him with enormous green eyes, just a touch of sadness in his hopeful expression, and his paws shuffled on the narrow beam. Just like he’d done in the cove, but now being a tenth of the size it was, as predicted, ten times stronger.

“Nngaah _,”_ Dreamer responded, trying to resist.

_Whiiine_

“Nnngggg…”

_Whiiiiiiiiiine…_

_Alright, alright, just turn that off_. He rose shakily and pushed the stupid adorable face away, then flexed and stretched his weary wings. Wanderer bobbed excitedly on the beam, though he couldn’t hide the concern in his expression. _Sorry, my friend, I don’t mean to worry you_ …

Dreamer glided down to the floor of the hall, padded through the doors and into the muted light. He didn’t have the energy to run or jump, so just walked off the top step – a firm wind blowing up the village instantly launched him into the air, and in moments Berk was far below. _Woah_ , these _were_ good winds, he didn’t even really need to flap or anything.

Within minutes, however, he was sorely regretting everything and hung morosely from his wings. The endless clouds high above had started emptying their contents in a fine misting rain, and it fell in a great blanket from which there was no escape. He had to admit it was interesting watching it swirl in the eddies behind Wanderer and it allowed him to identify turbulence, but it was cold and wet and stung his eyes. Not nearly as much as when he’d been human, but it was still uncomfortable.

Even so, he easily spotted the long procession that was snaking away from the village and toward the great mountain in the centre of the main island. He watched from high above as they painstakingly made their way over bridges and up ramps, most likely towards the sacred grove where acts were witnessed by the gods. _What in Thor’s name…?_

Eager for an excuse to be out of the air, he glided in for a closer look. At the head of the procession he picked out the hulking figure of his father, the unique figure of Gothi, and a dark-haired man who was probably Spitelout. After them a weedy figure hobbled along between two guards, and an assortment of villagers trailed behind.

This didn’t bode well. Dreamer glided as close as he dared, maintaining a respectful distance and noting Wanderer at his side, but everyone bowed their heads to the rain. He could see none of their faces. The prisoner in particular wore no helmet, but was hunched over and his long grey hair was plastered to his face and neck.

The Night Furies accompanied the procession to the grove and lurked behind the treeline, if anyone spotted them there was no complaint. Dreamer idly fantasised about waiting on the statues of Thor and Hel, but it would ruin their image of ‘just’ wild dragons – more than he’d done already – and it remained a fantasy.

It was strange, he felt he was intruding on this event though he had every right to be there as either the Chief’s son or as a wild force of nature, whichever he chose to identify with. He couldn’t bring himself to leave anyway, not if it meant going back to squinting through the rain.

Wanderer brushed against him to get his attention. “What happening?”

“Not know. Place for… important things. That Long-Paw,” he gestured to the one in chains, “do bad maybe.” He had a sinking feeling, he couldn’t remember much about rituals that took place here but whatever the case it likely wasn’t good.

The grove was in the centre of a low flat on the mountain, unusually clear of ferns and undergrowth. Patches of small white flowers dotted the short grass, and there were no wildlife tracks as it was unreachable by ground until a wide ramp was hoisted up. The only sounds were the rustling of the canopy, and the insects and small birds flitting through it. The whole place felt pristine and tranquil.

In the centre of the flat was a great gnarled tree, said to have been a branch of Yggdrasil planted by the original settlers of Berk. Statues of the Aesir lined up either side of it to form a half-circle, the focal point of which received the prisoner while Stoick, Gothi and Spitelout stood in front of the sacred tree.

Dreamer padded to one side of the rows forming in front of the ceremony, trying to posture that he had every right to be there, and Wanderer followed his lead. The man’s head snapped up to latch his fiery eyes onto them, and he spat and snarled _hate, rage, threats,_ like some rabid beast. Dreamer still didn’t recognise him, though perhaps he should given _this_ reaction. The tirade only ended when Spitelout cuffed him.

Several people stepped forward and spoke, but it was all incoherent under the din of the water dripping through the green canopy and to the ground. A trial maybe? Certain cases may be brought before the gods to hear.

Stoick growled and barked _anger, betrayal_ and sometimes _strength_ , but Dreamer kept losing the hard sounds among the background noise and could only make out the occasional word. When Stoick turned away and faced the crowd they jeered and shouted, the bound man just scowling back at them.

Growling something quietly, Stoick turned back to the prisoner.

“Ohhhhhh, uss geio iyi,” Dreamer heard him mutter unintelligibly, but it was that groan that got his attention – _Mildew_. Without his helmet or staff, and with his hair plastered flat by the rain, he was completely unrecognisable. Had they successfully linked him to the storehouse fire? The harassment _had_ stopped, he now realised, but–

That was all Dreamer had time to process before his father, in one swift movement, drew his behemoth of a sword and swung it.

He and Wanderer both gaped. Mildew fell forward and his head rolled, blood spilling over the grass as if from a great red tap, and the stench of it wrinkled their noses even through the drizzle. Dreamer was no stranger to death or killing – he’d hunted, killed and eaten wild game almost all year – but this was somehow different.

When the body finished draining, it and the head were dragged away probably to be dumped somewhere unceremoniously. Many of the attending Vikings spat onto the ground before departing for the long trek back. He realised he didn’t recognise many of them, meaning they hadn’t wanted to play with the Night Furies and had little to no love for dragons. What had Mildew _done_?

Dreamer felt lightheaded and dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut and found himself leaning heavily against Wanderer’s damp side. The bigger dragon crooned comfortingly and gave him a light nuzzle, and they stayed there like that until the sounds of footsteps faded away. New and suddenly closer footsteps pricked his ears, and he opened his eyes to see Fishlegs approaching.

“Oo oh ee ss th itrooduh, ite?” Dreamer strained his ears, trying to put the pieces together – his spinning head wasn’t helping – but all he got was _intruder_.

“He intruder? Yes,” he said slowly, then pawed his ear and looked around at the noisy treetops.

Fishlegs spoke a few words, louder and slower, then left Dreamer to sit there in shock.

* * *

Two weeks prior, following the storehouse fire and ensuing ‘discussion’, Fishlegs could only hear Stormfly struggle with Stoick and Astrid as they all flew through the night. Fishlegs _hated_ flying in the dark, and gripped the saddle for fear of being sucked off into the surrounding darkness.

He tried to recall what he knew of Mildew to keep himself occupied. The old man had joined the tribe a drifter, a nobody, but quickly made his name as an excellent dragon slayer. There was something about him trying to join a clan, or start a new one? But it all fell flat when he failed to produce an heir with three different wives, all of whom perished within a few years. He became an ill omen, and when his age caught up with him and he retired he quickly became a nuisance. Some of the older tribespeople remembered him for his glory days, though everyone seemed to agree he was now generally a miserable person to be around.

His stomach lurched as Meatlug began falling– _descending_ , and then they were on sweet sweet land. He might have kissed the grass if he’d forgotten who it belonged to.

Stormfly lit a torch for Astrid, casting an eerie light around them and revealing a dilapidated house nearby. Stoick knocked, and after a short delay the rotting door creaked open.

“Stoick, weeeelcome, please, do come in,” said the decrepit old man, his vile voice sarcastically polite. “Can I offer you anything? Water? Ale? The blood of innocent children?”

Ignoring the insult, Stoick ducked through the door and spoke politely but firmly. “Mildew, you stand accused of harassing the dragons against the word of your Chief, and of conspiring to burn down a storehouse. What say you?”

Fishlegs did his best to tune out the whining old man’s denials – every slimy word was like venom in his ears – and idly examined the things hanging on the walls. Four shields… okay, _ew_. Or, ewe? Heh. No, definitely ew. A bunch of dragon… _parts_ , despite orders to remove them. A stone wall prominently featured a depiction of Mildew slaying a Monstrous Nightmare with a spear. Above it, a Gronckle head stared sightlessly into the room, which Fishlegs stared at apologetically before moving on.

A glint of metal caught his eye behind a curtain, and he peeked inside to find a tall spear with an enormous arrow head. The one from the painting, he supposed. It looked well maintained, unlike everything else, and interestingly even the hooked undersides of the head were sharpened. _For ripping downwards_ , he thought queasily.

Then his eyes got wider. And wider.

“Oi! Don’t ya know it’s rude to pry, ya little _brat_?” Mildew spat at him, but Fishlegs still wasn’t listening. He just pulled the weapon from the little room and wordlessly handed it to Astrid.

“What is it?” Stoick asked tiredly, waving a hand to vainly try to calm Mildew but also blocking him from stalking forward.

Astrid stared at the weapon, much like Fishlegs had. “Sir, have you ever seen the effect an eel has on a dragon?”

“Not… personally, but I’ve had it described. Why?”

She stood the spear in front of him and held the torch up to it; it barely came up to his chin. Stood like this, however, it was obvious that wrapped tightly around the shaft near the head was an _eel_. What was left of it. The skin was dry and shrivelled, and had peeled back from the jaw – it had been there a _lot_ longer than a year.

A tense silence settled over the room. Fishlegs could only imagine the effectiveness of the weapon, wave it at a dragon and it would be rearing back, creating openings to strike as well as protecting the wielder. And now that he was thinking about it, _how was this house so old?_ Old enough to rot through the timbers in places. _Every other_ building on Berk had been rebuilt at least once in the last decade.

“You knew,” Stoick said quietly to the spear, then more firmly to Mildew, “You _knew_ , and didn’t tell the rest of us.”

“It’s no’ like I ‘id it!” Mildew crowed. “It was in plain sight fer everyone ter see.”

But Stoick was _done_ , and grabbed the sack of stains to effortlessly toss him outside. “I charge you, Mildew no-clan, with _treason_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah. I was unprepared for that response xD
> 
> First thing's first, absolutely nobody (publicly) called Fishlegs' intentions with that statement, but there are some honourable mentions:
> 
>   * Fortean (AO3) - Predicted by chapter 4 that Dreamer's memories would get him into trouble and that he'd have to confront his humanity.
>   * toothlessgolfer (FFN) - Didn't take the statement at face value.
>   * Ethan Joseph (FFN/PM) - Pointed out that this was quite out of character for Stoick.
> 

> 
> I'll admit I'm guilty of a little misdirection here, but originally it felt the statement was WILDLY out of nowhere so I added a few little thoughts for Stoick to at least give it some credibility. I wonder if I was a little too obvious with that and too subtle with the hints of what Fishlegs was picking up, but the responses I got reaffirmed Dreamer's own reaction and for that I am pleased.
> 
> Now, I know this wasn't the dark twist that apparently everyone was expecting, but hopefully it's still dark enough (albeit in a different way) that you guys don't feel let down by it. I want you all to know that this chapter was reshaped _heavily_ over the last week to reflect the feedback I got, and I'd really like to thank everyone who commented, theorised and discussed it with me. You guys are awesome, it really helped me nail down how I wanted this chapter to feel, though it did end up somewhat short.
> 
> On a slightly different subject, Mildew... Heh, this played out kind of strangely. The whole thing was a step towards Fishlegs' Dragonese, and another layer of conflict on a fractured Dreamer. When I wrote the scene in Mildew's hut it led on from the storehouse fire, so we already knew the result. t kind of busted the mystery in the grove scene so I moved it to after that. I then decided the whole thing was out of nowhere, and added the foreshadowing in chapter 4. It was never really meant to be a plot, but it sort of turned into one that then ends abruptly. I can't say I'm particularly happy with that but it was too ingrained by the time I wanted to change it. To be honest though I am happy to have him out of the way, and I'm okay with leaving this as another unexpected twist in a very turbulent chapter. Fret not, we have some proper plots looming (in case you haven't picked up on that yet).


	7. Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention last chapter that I didn't really want to have Fishlegs find out, and I agree a story with a dragon Hiccup where nobody knows his identity would be cool. However, Fishlegs has always had a crazy imagination and is very perceptive, but fails to apply his thoughts practically (that's Hiccup's job normally). The more I thought about it, the less I could convince myself Fishlegs wouldn't notice something, and it lent itself nicely to the story both here and in the future.
> 
> But it does appear I was a little too subtle with his thought process, so now let's hear his side of the story. There's also one more piece to why he's obsessing that he hasn't realised yet, can anyone guess? There's a lot of subtle hints in this chapter too, as always, so keep an eye out for them ;)

“The physical vocabulary of Gronckles does not appear to be hindered by their stout nature, small wings and short tails, however the limited range of movement does restrict the communication of tone and emotion. Gronckles are therefore prone to overcompensate with their movements and expressions when communicating, although this may be an adaptation when nesting with… other species.”

The wood flexed in Fishlegs’ fingers as he was reminded of the few times he was sure he had seen Meatlug talking to another dragon. A pair of dragons, specifically. He took a deep breath, gently brushed off the stray flakes of charcoal, and closed the book. After setting it to one side he picked up the next from his pile of projects, the new Book of Dragons to which he had been adding–… It went aside a little more forcefully.

He’d been hoping to keep his mind occupied and away from his recent discovery, but so much of what he did involved dragons and kept looping his thoughts back. The rest didn’t engage his mind enough to keep it distracted. He slumped back in his chair with a groan and rubbed his eyes, again wondering why this had him so shaken, besides the apparent magical rebirth.

Hiccup wasn’t a person any sane Viking would consider a ‘friend’, but Fishlegs considered him more of a friend than anyone else had. They’d had similarly sharp minds and could bounce ideas off each other for hours – when assured privacy – and were both fascinated with dragons. Well, Hiccup with killing one, not the knowledge Berk had compiled on them. “Kill on sight” was all he saw on most pages of the original Book of Dragons, and he’d been more than happy to oblige. Try to, anyway.

So Fishlegs felt somewhat betrayed by the deception. Not for the first time, he cursed the crazy idea. When he’d seen the Night Fury was left handed over winter, he had initially thought it a curiosity and a funny coincidence, but his stupid overactive imagination considered the timing and promptly put forward the idea they were the same person.

And then he could. Not. Stop. Noticing. Things.

With so many tiny details fuelling that stupid impossible idea, Fishlegs started making notes in the tiniest notebook he could find just to get the thoughts into writing and out of his head. After finding enough evidence to fill the entire thing he realised he needed to do something to disprove it, or go mad. The simple test was supposed to reassure himself, just say something to the dragon, and when there was no reaction he could burn the stupid book and put it behind him.

It was the perfect plan, right up until it had provided irrefutable proof instead of closure. And then they’d held a conversation! The whole thing defied so much logic it made his head spin, and Hiccup was _acting_ so much like a dragon it made him sick. Was he even the same person under those scales?

Fishlegs groaned again, why couldn’t he stop picking at this? It’d been two weeks now and his thoughts had barely left him any peace. It was bad enough to consider swiping a small barrel of mead just so he could drink himself into a stupor and get some decent sleep.

This wasn’t helping, he should take Meatlug out for a flight. Still dragon-related, but he felt that if he did something a little more reckless than usual it might bring him to his senses. Maybe he could try a small dive. Oh dear, he might be a little hysterical to be considering that.

After packing away his books and snuffing out the candle, Fishlegs stumbled his way through the dark study to the door. He emerged into the house proper, empty for most of the day, and squinted at the light as he stepped outside. He refused to close his eyes, knowing what the bright spots would resolve into – enormous green orbs, impossible to think behind which was a human intelligence, that had stared at him intensely and stirred a primal wariness.

And after Hiccup had hunched protectively over his tail, desperately hoping Stoick didn’t actually want to maim him… his expression had turned downright _frightening_. His eyes had shrunk to vertical black slits in his fierce green irises, and his lips curled back to show just how sharp _all_ his teeth were; they tended to be sheathed when not eating, playing, or apparently threatening. Thankfully Fishlegs had been a little too high on adrenaline and disbelief at the time to notice being scared witless.

A lump rose in his throat. He did now regret choosing that _particular_ statement, but he’d never expected it to actually work! And he wouldn’t have needed to if Hiccup had have just told him in the first place. But no, he was having too much fun cosying up to Astrid – and _Tuffnut!?_ – and living off free meals.

With a curse he tripped over a rock that had been unearthed on the path to the training ring, and kicked it over the cliff a few paces away. Argh, he couldn’t stop his thoughts returning to those horrific teeth. A killer’s teeth, for grabbing and shredding. They were far removed from what he thought of as Hiccup.

…What _did_ he think of as ‘Hiccup’? Stubborn, reckless, enthusiastic, scrawny, playful, he still had those traits. Not cuddly, affectionate, dangerous, fierce, those were all new, and certainly not–

 _Happy_ , said a voice in the back of his mind. Yes… Hiccup was _happy_ to be a dragon, _that_ was what was bugging Fishlegs so much. But… why? He shouldn’t begrudge someone their happiness… unless it was at the expense of others. The expense of Stoick, who still grieved for a son who wasn’t dead. The expense of the other riders who unwittingly showered affection over their classmate; Fishlegs would have found the irony hilarious, had he not been one of those deceived.

The training ring was nearly in sight, and he looked forward to talking to Meatlug about it again. It wasn’t Hiccup’s threat that kept him quiet, not directly, it was that the idea was just too absurd to believe. He barely believed it himself, and without Hiccup’s cooperation he’d never be taken seriously by anyone. But Meatlug took him seriously, even if she didn’t understand a word of it, and knew how to make him feel better. Well, maybe Gobber would too, but then Fishlegs often suspected he wasn’t all right in the head.

He rounded a corner to step onto the boards surrounding the ring, still deep in thought.

* * *

Wanderer had had enough. Sometimes bad things happened, and it was good to think away the badness, but Dreamer seemed to be thinking up more badness for himself as he was only getting worse. Wanderer just had no idea what to do about it. He refused to let him think he’d given up, kept bringing him food even though it went untouched, kept showing him love even when it was pushed away.

Despite his efforts, his Dreamer was back to lying listlessly in their den. He had to try something else. What did Long-Paws do when upset? The only time he’d been this upset since meeting Dreamer was–… was when Dreamer wasn’t there to try to comfort him.

Wanderer shook his head, and thought back to when he was trapped in the ground-hole. Dreamer had been full of wonder and curiosity in his earlier visits, and once they started flying together he slowly became confident and happy. There were times in between, however, when he had limped in with his face smelling of salt and body moving with pain, sometimes also smelling of blood. He had clearly lost fights with other Long-Paws, and it seemed to upset him greatly.

Wondering what he’d been doing fighting nest-kin in the first place, frail as he was, Wanderer had allowed the fledgling to rest under a wing to find his paws. Dreamer had chattered in those strange Long-Paw sounds until his breathing steadied and his shoulders relaxed. _Rrmm..._

He padded forward and delicately wrapped himself around his Dreamer, ignoring the growled complaint. “We talk.” It was a very intimate way of talking, they couldn’t see each other much but could feel each other’s words against their bodies. Wanderer could also feel the rock-hard tension in his friend-mate’s shoulders and back, and with how little he was eating it was no wonder he was losing weight so quickly.

The reply was lethargic and weak. “Talk what?”

“Anything.” There was only silence. “The Long-Paw your–… who die, he not say about eels. Why bad?” That had been three nights ago now, and Wanderer had initially been a little hopeful it would help… but as expected it only seemed to add more bad feelings.

He felt Dreamer’s teeth bare. “Fire, claws, teeth, many nest-kin die. You take food, we starve. Knowing about fear… Eels with food, use fight, you take food? Nest-kin die?”

Wanderer shuddered. He had only flown safely – he had thought – overhead in the raids to protect his nest, not being quite so under control to let himself be eaten if he brought nothing back, but he definitely would _not_ want to try to steal food from a nest full of those _vile_ things. He needed to stop underestimating Long-Paw ingenuity. And yet… “Then I not know you…”

Dreamer sighed but said nothing, the silence slowly and painfully piercing Wanderer’s chest. They had both been so lonely, and he thought they’d needed each other. Did Dreamer not…?

He grounded the thought, Dreamer was hurting in his heart right now and had bad thinking, these weren’t his true thoughts. “Dreamer. You sad, I worried. What you need be happy?”

“…I not know.” The little Nightstriker curled up a little tighter.

“Say why you sad.” There was silence. Wanderer growled, “You not say, I drag you to your female, pin you, groom you _violently_ you shed early.”

A few moments of tense silence passed. “…Shed?”

…Rrmm, they’d both been hatchlings for the only shedding-season they’d known each other. “New scales. Start soon, should groom you-me-you lots.” Now that he thought about it, his hide was already starting to itch as new scales formed under the dying layer. Grooming would help them cut and settle, and he was _really_ looking forward to having a partner he trusted to help him after cycles of suffering it alone.

Dreamer sighed again; he was doing a lot of that. “Many things. Before Fish-Legs know, I feel Nightstriker. Now I feel Long-Paw _in_ Nightstriker.”

“ _Stupid_ ,” Wanderer snorted onto his head. “Before you Nightstriker, you Nightstriker in Long-Paw.” Dreamer shuffled a little and hummed quietly at that.

 _Shedding_ … Wanderer had been so worried he hadn’t been paying attention to the deep itching all over his hide. If _he_ was itching… It was a little awkward at this angle, but he flexed his claws against Dreamer’s back – and hesitated. He turned over the recent lights in his mind, a crazy idea forming. It might just work…

He made the decision. “I come back!” he barked happily as he extracted himself, and leapt from their den. He rifled through a hollow-tree-thing until he found what he was looking for, took it in his mouth, and bounded into the air towards the Long-Paw nest.

This Long-Paw was usually quite easy to find, and sure enough it wasn’t long before he and the female-he were running through the nest at top speed in the precarious upright Long-Paw way. Wanderer followed from above until they stopped running, then dropped nearby and bounded over.

Wanderer had once called him Boundless, and Dreamer found it appropriate as the Long-Paw name apparently didn’t translate. _Excitement-excitement-excitement!_ he said to Wanderer, who couldn’t help but jump around playfully. _Excitement-question-hopeful-excitement?_ Wanderer grinned to show him enough of the Long-Paw-thing that he’d know what it was, but didn’t let him reach for it.

 _Lonely-angry-sad_ , whined the she-Boundless, saying “No!” with her long paw, but Wanderer ignored her. She’d probably end up coming anyway, that was fine.

Boundless lunged for him and he skipped back out of reach, wagging his hindquarters in the air and growling playfully. Wanderer almost forgot why he was there playing keep-away for a moment, the _excitement_ was far too contagious, but started leading Boundless away from the nest.

 _Understand-happy-excitement_ crooned Boundless as they trotted up the long path back to the rock-hole, she-Boundless grumbling and growling as she followed. They arrived eventually – Long-Paws took _forever_ to get _anywhere_ , it was a wonder they could even feed themselves – and she-Boundless went to the Two-Head den. Wanderer dropped the Long-Paw-thing in front of his own den and stepped off to the side.

Boundless hummed _understanding-protect-sad_ as he picked up the Long-Paw-thing, shook off the saliva and entered the den. He reappeared moments later with a grumpy Dreamer in his forelegs.

“What?” Wanderer flared his frills innocently at the dirty look he was getting.

Finding a nice warm-light spot, Boundless sat down, dropped Dreamer into his lap and hummed _calm, safe, protect_. Dreamer squirmed, making to escape, and Boundless muttered _unsure, question_ to Wanderer. A pawful of swift bats to the head with a growled warning of _stay_ , and the struggling stopped.

 _Amused-understanding-excited!_ Boundless barked, and got to work with the Long-Paw-thing. It was a flat thing cut from a tree, and somehow rows of short thin claws bristled from one side. With the appropriately long paws to hold it, it was _perfect_ for a nice firm groom, being somewhat softer and blunter than their own claws and teeth.

Wanderer grinned as Dreamer’s grumpy, sullen expression turned into wild shock as it got to work. This would be a new experience for him, but he’d quickly come to enjoy it.

An itch hit Wanderer right between the wings, and he strained to reach it. _Eels_ , now that he’d noticed it, he couldn’t un-notice it, and he’d set up his two trusted friends with each other. Well… perhaps without the influence of a hungry and jealous queen, he could trust a little… He approached she-Boundless, who was whining _sad, upset_ at the Two-Head, and tugged at her not-furs. “You,” he tipped his head to Boundless and Dreamer, “that, me?” For added measure he made his eyes big and round.

 _Hopeful, happy, question_ she asked, and Wanderer grinned and bounced a little on his paws. It would be a relief to at least have his back done for now, as it was the hardest place to reach, the rest could wait. Dreamer was purring for the first time in many long nights, and at this moment that was more important than any amount of discomfort.

She-Boundless barked something aggressively at Boundless, who waved a foreleg with a lame grunt, and she walked off to fetch something from the hollow-tree-thing by the wall. Wanderer trotted over to give Dreamer a nuzzle, the little Nightstriker was now making pathetic little whines with every stroke. _Hurry hurry hurry,_ he thought at she-Boundless as she sat down facing Boundless, another Long-Paw-thing in her paw. This was a flat cold thing with broad hard teeth, not as good but it would do the job.

He stepped forward – and hesitated, itches forgotten again, as the hard smell of her claws slammed into him. Fears resurfaced of claws raking through his back, attached to a Spine-Tail or Fire-Scale but belonging to the queen, and he felt his teeth slide slowly through his gums. Memories bubbled of having to protect Dreamer from his own nest in this very rock-hole, then being knocked to the ground, held down, and restrained. The edges of his vision darkened. _No, this nest isn’t like that now_ , but the thought was quiet and unconvincing.

 _Danger, safe, protect, slow_ , Boundless hummed with an undertone of a growl. The two blood-kin alternately clicked and growled at each other for a few moments, and then together they delicately pulled out their claws – a quiet hiss couldn’t be restrained – to toss them away.

With the surprisingly numerous claws scattered out of reach, Wanderer relaxed, flexing his frills and sheathing his teeth. “Sorry,” he said to She-Boundless, and stepped onto her hindleg to nuzzle her cheek.

 _Annoyed_ , she growled, her expression full of hurt, but then she crooned _understanding, safe, protect,_ and scratched behind his ears. The itching tickled down his back again, and he hesitantly lay himself across her lap, forcing his breathing to steady.

 _Confused, unsure_ , she-Boundless said, and the cold Long-Paw-thing ran down his scales – Wanderer could have laughed, but settled for flicking his wings irritably at her. Here he’d had an only somewhat irrational fear of her tearing through his hide, but this was far too gentle to do anything at all. He felt stupid for overreacting. Boundless clicked and hummed something, and Wanderer’s eyes went wide with the second stroke. A pathetic yowl slipped from his throat, and his back hunched into the sensation.

It was nearly painful, the way the tiny little prickles danced under his scales like thorns, but it quickly faded into a warm and pleasant relief. A little like when Dreamer removed the Long-Paw-thing that had allowed him to fly again, after it had started to ache, but a lot stronger.

This settled into a rhythm that had Wanderer flexing and groaning pitifully. It had been worse than he’d thought, between Dreamer and his own apparent issues he’d forced it to the edge of his mind as something he couldn’t do anything about. As the worst of it was combed out, he felt himself relaxing for the first time since Dreamer stopped eating, and that elusive purr mirroring his own was–

The purring cut off abruptly, and Wanderer’s mind raced ahead of him even as he snapped his head up and confirmed Dreamer was unharmed. _Confused, concern, question,_ Boundless muttered, checking him over, but Dreamer stiffly climbed off and skulked back to the den. _What in the night sky?_ What had happened?

Someone had entered the rock-hole while his guard was down, the big Long-Paw who was too curious for his own good. Dreamer translated his name as Fish-Legs; Wanderer had never seen his legs but was pretty sure they were not fish. Long-Paws and their stupid names…

Fish-Legs was staring tensely after Dreamer with his jaw clenched – Wanderer finally understood the problem, and stepped off of she-Boundless. If he had become a Long-Paw and his nest could see who he was, he might be ashamed at being seen doing some of the more bizarre Long-Paw things like wearing the skins of prey-things; it’d been bad enough wearing the small patch of rank skin on his tail. And Long-Paws were as self-conscious as Spine-Tails.

He was _furious_. This Long-Paw was the whole reason Dreamer was miserable, as if he had _any right_ to decide that.

Seeing his bared teeth and narrowed eyes, Fish-Legs turned his scowl on Wanderer. “What?”

“You hurting Dreamer,” Wanderer growled at him, but he just scoffed, rolled his eyes and made to walk away.

Rage boiled under Wanderer’s scales. He lunged forward and darted up the side and back of Long-Paw, the thrashing only lasting a moment until sharp claws pressed into the pudgy face. S _ubmit_ , he snarled right into his ear, _if you don’t want to lose an eye_.

The Rock-Scale thrummed into the open with a growl, and Boundless and she-Boundless both slowly rose to their hind paws, forelegs out low to their sides. Boundless hummed _safe, safe, fear_ , but Wanderer ignored all of it. After tense moments, Fish-Legs slowly lowered himself to the ground.

“Good,” Wanderer huffed and dropped down, then padded around him, leaving the wary Rock-Scale to his side. “You hurting Dreamer,” he repeated, and gave a sharp snarl to show what he thought of that.

“I look him.”

For such a smart Long-Paw, this one was amazingly stupid. Hrrr, how could he put this to simple words? “He feel what you think. You think bad, he feel bad.” Fish-Legs just huffed and pouted. “He not choose! I do, now he Nightstriker! Not can change! What you want?”

Fish-Legs leaned forward as if to speak but said nothing for a short time. “I wanted him tell me. He not,” he eventually said.

“You know now. You not happy, he not happy.”

“He not tell me.”

Wanderer fought the urge to screech at him, why were Long-Paws so _frustrating?_ Always overthinking things, overlooking what was in front of their noses. “You not want Dreamer.”

Fish-Legs glared at him. “You not say I not want!”

 _For the love of flying_ , he thrust a wing towards his den and stared at Fish-Legs with the biggest _has your head been eaten by worms_ look he could manage. He couldn’t fathom why Dreamer was so attached to this Long-Paw, any of them in general but this one in particular. He was loud, nosy, annoying, and now this. For Dreamer, however… he would try to make this work. Wanderer owed him that much after dropping him into this life.

But it _finally_ seemed to be getting through that thick skull, Fish-Legs was mumbling _regret, sorry_ and looking solemn.

 _Confused, confused, question,_ shouted she-Boundless, and Fish-Legs responded with _sorry, resolve, question_. The smell-alikes grumbled as they mounted their Two-Head and flew off.

“Sorry,” Fish-Legs said to Wanderer, but he just huffed and trotted off to get Dreamer, keeping a wary ear on the Rock-Scale as he passed. _Not me you have to apologise to, rock-head_. Dreamer had, of course, curled up in the furthest corner and hidden himself in shadow, and had to be dragged out by the scruff of his neck. This was a two-way problem, after all.

So while Fish-Legs spoke, Wanderer ignored the plaintive protests and gave Dreamer his first cleaning in what appeared to be a long time, given the state of him. _Both_ of these rock-heads would just have to get used to it again; Dreamer was a Nightstriker, and Nightstrikers were affectionate creatures.

The two talked for a while, Fish-Legs even occasionally talking properly with his body, though Wanderer respectfully only paid enough attention to gauge the mood. Twice it got a little heated, but not enough that he felt he needed to intervene, and eventually they reached something hopefully resembling a resolution.

Wanderer had become bored and was half-dozing when Fish-Legs stood up and left on the Rock-Scale. He got up, stretched and yawned, then nudged Dreamer’s jaw. “You stink. Come, we fly to old den, swim.” _And then you’re going to fill your belly if I have to force the fish down your throat_ , he thought as Dreamer reluctantly stretched his thin body.

* * *

Awkwardly, stiffly, Ruffnut stalked along the path to the training ring to look for her stupid brother. Ever since winter Tuffnut had seemed more interested in the little Furies than in her, but they were just so Lokishly adorable she couldn’t be mad at them for it. So she was mad at him. With her brother absent for up to half of every day she had no excuse or escape when her family threw her at some occupation, and nothing better to do anyway.

She should be proud of her accomplishments. She’d managed to set fire to the kitchens, ruin a dozen paces of cloth, lost three sheep in a bare paddock, and Gobber’s winter coat would never smell the same again. She _would_ be proud, if she’d intentionally been trying to do all that. The idea of a prank just wasn’t the same without her partner, and now she was failing at everything else she tried. Did she need to learn how to _not_ Loki stuff? Was that a thing?

Ruffnut glanced up at Stoick, the reason for her awkwardness, walking ahead and aside her. He’d been putting pressure on her family to keep her occupied, she suspected, him or Astrid. Or both, that seemed likely. It was weird to walk with the Chief, normally in this situation she’d have Tuffnut with her and they’d be on their way to their parents. Silently, she cursed asking him if he knew where Tuffnut was, like she even needed an answer. She just hadn’t wanted to walk all the way to the ring to find he wasn’t there.

Strange sounds reached her ears. “Hey, you hear that…?” she asked warily, rolling her footsteps to silence them.

Without a long history of sneaking around, Stoick stopped entirely to listen. “Sounds like… a dragon fight…?” he rumbled quietly. Having passed him, she looked back to meet his eyes, then they both legged it to the ring. She arrived first, peering down from the rim, though the Chief was surprisingly fast on his feet and towered next to her a moment later.

What she saw first was the Furies, snarling and growling while they clawed and bit each other. They rolled around in a tangle of wings and tails, leaving dark scraps and scales to litter the ring. It took her a moment to recognise two sets of legs directly below her, those of Tuffnut and Gobber slumped motionless against one wall. “Guys!” she shouted, though whether at her brother and mentor or the Furies, she wasn’t quite sure.

The Furies rolled apart to look at her, then twitched manically and started chewing themselves before merging back into a tangle of black limbs. “Oh, hey sis,” Tuffnut called up at her tiredly. She slipped through the bars and into the ring, then kicked him in the side.

“Don’t _scare_ me like that!” she yelled at him as he keeled over, then gave his helmeted head a tap with her heel for good measure. His pained groans were very satisfying.

“What in Odin’s hundred names is going on…?” Stoick asked as he jogged through the main gate. He picked up one of the scales and turned it in his fingers.

Pulling himself upright again, Tuffnut tossed a brush up at Ruffnut. “They’re shedding. Mind giving us a hand?”

“By Freya’s beard, ah’ve never seen anything’ _like_ it,” Gobber muttered, “Weh’ve been brushin’ fer _hours_ an’ they’re _still_ at it. Ah’ve barely even ‘ad a chance ter _look at_ the scales yet.” He twisted the brush attachment from his prosthetic and tossed it towards Stoick, but only made half the distance. It clattered to the stone floor, and the Furies rolled to a stop to look at it.

One of them darted for the brush and ran it to Stoick, whining pathetically and then dropping it to growl and gnaw at his shoulder, and paws touched Ruffnut’s waist as the other stood up against her. She winced at the way his skin twitched and danced over his back, and noted rough edges where part of it had peeled off to reveal gleaming new scales underneath.

“Aww, how can I say no to that adorwabaw face,” Ruffnut said quietly, dropping down and quickly getting to work. She had to remember these dragons weren’t fragile, despite their small size, and the harder she ran the brush down the scales the louder the dragon – Toothy, she thought – whimpered and flexed. Getting into the swing of it, she looked up and had to grin at the similarly pathetic dragon in Stoick’s lap.

Toothy swung around, and Ruffnut nearly lost a finger as he attacked his own flank. “Hey, watch it!” she shouted, but hurriedly resumed stroking and the Fury calmed again.

“You don’t have to go top to bottom you know, they have _scales_ , not fur.”

Ruffnut glared at her brother, of course he was right and it was obvious but he didn’t have to make her sound stupid. “Hear that Chief?” she called over. “Just brush in any direction, the harder the better.”

“I don’t want to hurt him. Look how much weight he’s lost, poor little thing, must be sick again.”

“Nah, he’s a dragon, the brush will break before he does.”

Stoick considered her words, and the next stroke was met with a loud cry and a _crack_. He stared at the handle in his hand while Hiccup panted and purred loudly. _Heh, told ya_.

“Oi! Tha’ was mah best brush!” Gobber shouted, but Stoick just picked up the head and carried on, ignoring the grumbles.

“What are you even doing here old man?” Ruffnut asked Gobber while she scrubbed the flank sprawled across her knee, grinning as Toothy whimpered and kicked his leg.

“Astrid mentioned they were droppin’ scales, and tha’ they had some _interestin’ properties_. Thought ah’d accompany Tuffnut this mornin’ ter check it ou’. Ah’m always excited ter work with new materials, bu’ got a bit… caught up in the acquisition.”

Ruffnut nearly lost a finger again and brought her attention back to her charge with a wordless growl. Dusting off the little scales that were gathering on Toothy’s back, she felt something catch under her hand. _Huh?_ She tried to get her thumb under it to no avail, but then managed to get a nail in and tease it up. “ _Stop twitching,_ ” she grunted at the dragon, holding him still under her other arm, then found a grip on the tapered edge and peeled up a layer of skin.

Toothy whined but didn’t flinch or attack her, so she kept teasing and peeling with grim fascination until the piece tore away. About the size of her hand, it was as thick as work leather and felt just as strong. She only had to wonder for a moment how she’d managed to tear it before Toothy craned around to lick the freshly revealed scales, showing the little cracks running through the old skin.

“Ah’ll take tha’.” Gobber reached over and plucked the scrap from her to examine it, turning it over in his hand. “This stuff’s amazin’, pity there’s only the two wee Furies. Though, when they’re grown we’ll have more ter work with. Prob’ly be thicker, too.”

A shadow fell over her, and a head nudged her shoulder. “Hey Barf, _little_ busy right now. Promise I’ll get to you, ‘kay? We can go blow up some sea stacks or something.” Barf croaked happily and nuzzled her, and only quick reflexes kept her hand attached to her wrist. “Would you _stop that,_ ” she hissed at the Fury, and he grumbled back at her. Oh boy, this was going to be a long morning…

* * *

Dreamer was feeling a _little_ better, if mainly due to how _itchy_ the shedding had been. He and Wanderer had been desperately chewing and clawing themselves and each other for days, heedless of who was observing, and only those _magical_ brushes had allowed him a shaky grip on sanity. It had taken his mind off things enough that some of his appetite had returned, and with it much of his strength.

Unlike the other dragons, who had either a solid mesh of scales or a thick layer of leather, Night Furies had a much thinner leather embedded with uncountable tiny scales. It seemed to be much stronger, lighter, and more fireproof than leather, but significantly more flexible and less brittle than scales. He still remembered with awe that Toothless had walked away from the destruction he’d wrought on the forest by crash-landing into it. The only apparent downside was when it came time for the hide to be replaced.

A few undamaged strips had come away cleanly, each maybe large enough for a dagger hilt, much to Gobber’s enthusiasm. It was a little disconcerting to think someone was interested in his skin and might find use for it, even if he wasn’t using it anymore. Particularly coveted had been the larger scales on the sides of their legs and mottling their heads, they had proven to be remarkably resilient to all attempts to damage them. The problem was, between only two small Night Furies, there wasn’t enough to even consider doing anything practical with them beyond maybe an indestructible purse. All that could be collected had gone into a locked box in the forge. Dreamer knew the twins had at least a few but what they would – or even could – do with them was anyone’s guess.

It was the first real downside to his dragon body that he’d encountered. He was not looking forward to the one next year, though Wanderer sheepishly assured him the first time was the worst. Apparently he’d forgotten that, shaking Dreamer’s perception of him as an all-knowing dragon expert.

The… _understanding_ he’d come to with Fishlegs seemed to be holding, though now instead of scornful the looks were apologetic. It was an improvement, he’d take it. The Dragonese lessons had started up again, and they’d managed a conversation – admittedly very awkwardly – about dragons in general. Dreamer was half expecting to be asked to submit to a thorough and… _uncomfortable_ examination, but it hadn’t come. _Oh, wait_ … Fishlegs had been there at the start, when he’d first woken up in his father’s house. Should he feel violated? He felt violated. Heh, maybe Fishlegs was similarly regretting past actions, wouldn’t that be funny.

Everything had settled down for about a week after the shedding, then the riders were apparently off to Dragon Island to try to bond some more dragons. From what Dreamer had overheard, there was some trepidation over bringing _more_ dragons to Berk in case it was seen as an act of gathering forces, so it was to be a slow process.

Naturally, Dreamer was tagging along, easily keeping pace with Meatlug, and the two Furies came as a package deal. He had been reasonably confident he could make the flight, but his wings stretched to their fullest spanned as far as _one_ of Stormfly’s. Additionally, while he had spent countless hours drifting in the sky, this was hard flying in a specific direction and often against the wind. The difference was now as clear as between standing and running.

There were advantages to being a small dragon, however. He chirped wearily at Stormfly, and she chittered back to him in her maternal tone and offered him a ride. _Not…_ quite _what I had in mind_ , he sighed to himself, eyeing the very large and very sharp teeth ringing the proffered ‘seat’. She seemed a little disappointed, but not upset or offended when he brought himself up and dropped himself awkwardly in Astrid’s lap.

Astrid shouted her surprise, and then loudly exclaimed something. It wasn’t until he turned to look at her and the air blew the wrong way over his ears that he realised she was just shouting over the wind. He’d forgotten about that. Wanderer teased him with a mock sympathy, but then Astrid’s hands found lingering itchy spots behind Dreamer’s ears and down his back, and he smirked back. Wanderer stubbornly stuck to his pride for maybe a whole minute before deftly dropping into Tuffnut’s lap.

Travelling like this was very nostalgic. Outside of training her he’d only ridden Stormfly once – to make this same journey, come to think of it – and it was different to riding Toothless. Nonetheless, it took him back to the week or so he’d just whiled away what time he could drifting in the clouds on the back of his friend.

Dreamer hadn’t meant to spend well over half the flight being carried, but they were suddenly gliding through the thick fog that perpetually surrounded Dragon Island. It was too late to jump off, a moment too long finding his wings and he’d be lost in the gloom. He did make the descent down to the beach by himself at least.

The mountain rose before them, heat radiating from the cracked rock, and he could just about make out what must be the remains of the queen in the distance. That must be uncomfortable to have laying around, but it was no wonder the dragons stuck around here, even in winter it would be very warm. He could hear so many of them the sound was a buzz in his ears.

“Have nice sleep, lazywings?” Wanderer chided as they landed. Dreamer playfully lunged at him and they tussled in the pebbles while the others dismounted, stretched, and set up a small camp.

Dreamer found his Nightstriker instincts kicking in, always alert and ready for danger even while playing, and a part of his mind was busy processing the air of wariness around them. The dragons nestled into crevices in the side of the mountain clearly didn’t trust the Long-Paws, but were unsure and curious.

The conclusion he came to was that he could help by showing these dragons that the riders weren’t a threat. _Which I’m already doing_ , he mused as he chewed one of Wanderer’s legs. He wasn’t really sure which one, they were both half-buried in the smooth stones.

Wanderer broke free and sat on him, batting his head. Dreamer was pretty sure he was lecturing him too, something about staying on top in a fight, but he couldn’t see. He managed to wriggle out from under him and shook himself, flexing his battered wings and fins while he looked around again.

 _What else can I do?_ The group had set up a fire – there were still plenty of wrecked ships around for wood – and were roasting fish over it. Dreamer took to the air, feeling Stormfly’s keen eyes watching him, and circled low overhead.

Snotlout was being his usual boisterous self, pacing and saying _mighty, threatening, big_ , certainly not helping ease the concerns of the onlooking dragons. Dreamer brought himself around and landed on the idiot’s back, staggering him and throwing him off whatever routine he was enacting.

Dreamer wrinkled his nose as stale must assaulted it, _doesn’t this boy_ ever _bathe?_ Regardless, he hooked his forelegs over Snotlout’s shoulders and wrapped his tail around his waist. Snotlout didn’t know what to make of this and just stood there stiffly while the others laughed. At least he wasn’t being threatening anymore.

“Here you go, little Hiccy,” Tuffnut crooned as he tossed a fish for Dreamer to snap out of the air, then jumped as Wanderer appeared under his elbow to filch one from the bag. “ _Hey_ , what did I tell you about sneaking around young man?” He tried to snatch the fish from Wanderer, and when that failed he made to grab him. That failed too.

With part of his senses tuned to the surrounding dragons, Dreamer was aware of the young Nightmare well before he drifted to a gentle landing a short distance from the camp. “Erm, gaizz?” Ruffnut pointed him out, and all attention promptly turned to Snotlout, Dreamer still on his back.

“Ha! Ov coorse, thuh _besst_ drahgun iss the furst to arraive. Whatch and lurn, az the Snot taems thiss maity beest!” He snatched up a satchel, full of fish by the smell of it, and strode towards the Nightmare, heedless of the hushed shouts behind him.

 _Oh boy… I’d better stick around for this one_ , Dreamer thought to himself. Hookfang apparently didn’t agree and snorted down Dreamer’s back, but Snotlout turned around and gave him an earful. As they turned back, Dreamer caught something peculiar flash across Hookfang’s features – a mix of caution and worry that was most uncharacteristic for him to show towards Snotlout. It did help to explain their odd relationship though.

Under his paws, Dreamer could feel Snotlout getting more and more tense as he approached the wild Nightmare; _he has no idea what he’s doing_ … But before he had any chance to come up with any sort of plan, Snotlout dramatically tossed aside his weapons and helmet, and held a fish out.

The Nightmare gave a low hiss of _caution_. Probably because Snotlout’s posture was still _aggressive, big, scary_ , so Dreamer batted him on the head a few times. Apparently, Snotlout had forgotten he was there, as he jumped and threw his hands up to his head, hitting himself in the face with the fish in the process.

The two Nightmares snickered at him as he flailed, trying to grab Dreamer, but his thick arms weren’t flexible enough to reach far enough back. When he tried to hit him with the fish, Dreamer stole and ate it. Snotlout growled, then slumped in defeat and pulled out another fish. He offered it to the wild Nightmare, posture now _tired, wary_.

The Nightmare let Snotlout toss the fish into his mouth, then sniffed at him. Dreamer leaned forward to sniff back; this was his first time this close to a wild dragon directly, and he was a little unprepared for the wave of information that crashed into his brain. Most of all, he could smell smoke, first the rocky heat from the volcano and then the more biological smoke of dragon fire. There was also the fresh application of the flammable slime they coated themselves in, and then a core of something that was just unmistakably Monstrous Nightmare.

And layered through all of that were _dragons_ , dozens of them of all different types. _Just how sensitive are these noses?_ Dreamer received a sniff back, then the Nightmare crept around to meet Hookfang and that little pocket of world withdrew. It had been like being briefly shown a large parchment completely covered in runes, all different sizes, some familiar but most not, but he still had far too little experience to glean much from it. He was even only guessing the Nightmare was male. One day he might need to stay here a little while to get to grips with his senses.

The wild Nightmare snapped up another fish Snotlout threw for him, then ignored the proffered hand and flew back up into the mountain. Snotlout was initially dejected, but put on his false bravado and returned to the group.

Dreamer wished he could be part of all this, properly part of the mission. He’d first tamed the wildest and most intelligent of known dragons, the Night Fury, then easily calmed and bonded the broken and abused dragons they’d used for training. It was his calling, and he couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he’d survived and lived as a human.

But there were too many variables. His father had taken to the Night Fury fledglings, true, but he had been grieving the loss of his son for a whole year. Without that, could he have accepted the dragon who had been blasting the village to splinters for Thor knew how many years? And the other Hooligans… With only four dragons in the village, all mostly residing in the stables, there was still animosity and lingering hate.

Hiccup’s short-lived dream of establishing a dragon-friendly Berk seemed more impossible the more Dreamer thought about it. The way things had happened, he’d become a sort of martyr for peace; _at least we aint_ dyin’ _to the beasts anymore_ , echoed the activist’s words. He’d also enabled Fishlegs to communicate with dragons, something he hadn’t even considered a possibility in the month he’d spent with Toothless in the cove or even when he’d returned to the village _as a dragon_. It had taken someone to observe _two_ Night Furies, without that specific scenario there was no guarantee it would have ever happened.

When they reached the group, Dreamer dropped down. _Yeck_ , he _reeked_ of Snotlout, and licking off _that_ particular smell was very unappealing. He trotted down the beach to the water and, under the guise of playing, rubbed himself against the wet stones as best he could.

Wanderer was not fooled. When Dreamer returned, he was tackled and the job was finished for him. Thankfully he only had to suffer it a short time, there were more curious dragons approaching, a good few this time. _Ahh, so that was the plan, clever_. Thinking about it, curious dragons seemed ideal candidates for bonding rather than trying to chase one down and hope it cooperated.

Snotlout made to go for the nearest Nightmare but was promptly dropped to the ground by Astrid with a hissed reminder. Instead, he was left with the twins while Astrid and Fishlegs approached their affinitive dragons.

They were naturals. Astrid disarmed and approached with _awe, happy, amazed, scared_. She left Stormfly a little way back, then let the wild Nadder take a large fish from her. Dreamer couldn’t hear her words from the distance, but her tone and body said she was admiring the big Nadder who preened and bristled proudly.

Fishlegs was equally adept, approaching the only Gronckle with _calm, safe, slow_. His weight made it difficult to traverse the loose ground and he regularly slipped and stumbled, but the Gronckle seemed to be finding it endearing and they also connected quickly.

Laying on his front next to Wanderer, Dreamer watched in interest as they stumbled through a rushed version of what he’d done with the arena dragons. Fishlegs’ work no doubt, he liked to document _everything_ , though Dreamer had really only been reacting to the dragons’ needs. They’d been mistreated and abused, sorely in need of feeding and reassurance, and he worked with them based on that fact. It was a surprise it was working here actually – but then maybe not so much, the queen hadn’t treated them any better from what little he’d seen.

“Why nest here with queen?” he asked.

Wanderer’s ears had been darting around warily since the appearance of the new dragons, and while they didn’t pause at Dreamer’s question, his frills flattened to his neck. “Nest-kin not have choice. Queen take thoughts, give new thoughts. Not let them leave.”

“She let them go to egg-nest.”

“She need hatchlings. No drink-water here, no hatchlings, no fledglings. Grow on egg-nest.”

Dreamer idly waved his tail, processing all that. “All nest-kin leave in egg-season? Who feed queen?”

“Not all nest-kin leave. Some stay, feed…” His frills were really flattened to his neck now, practically quivering with the strain, and his folded wings were tense and hunched forward.

Dreamer decided not to pursue further questions. With a glance at Fishlegs to make sure he was distracted, he gave Wanderer a short nuzzle under his neck. It almost immediately relaxed the bigger Nightstriker, if not completely, and he received a low purr and a lick on the cheek. He was slowly getting more comfortable with this again, but it was taking time. He gave a quiet purr of _gratitude_ , Wanderer really was being very patient with him and let him move at his own pace. Most of the time, anyway.

“Where Long-Paws lay eggs?” Wanderer warbled curiously.

…He was suddenly a little less grateful. _Oh man, how to explain this…?_

“Long-Paws not lay eggs in egg-season?” he continued while Dreamer searched for the words. “No see hatchlings in nest.”

“Long-Paws not lay eggs.” Wanderer seemed to be waiting for more words. “No eggs,” he clarified.

 _Huff_. “No eggs, no hatchlings, no Long-Paws. I not eat them, why not say?” He nudged Dreamer with his nose. “I want know.”

“I… What? I trust you! Stupid. But no eggs.”

“How hatchlings if no eggs?”

Dreamer groaned and buried his face in the rocks. He didn’t want to have this conversation; this was way too uncomfortable.

“…I understand,” Wanderer sighed. “You not want tell me… I only curious…”

And now Dreamer felt bad. He groaned again and lifted his head. “Female... hold hatchling in belly. When…” Searching for the words he glanced around, but went quiet to decipher the toothy grin Wanderer was giving him.

…

The moment he made the connection, Wanderer was off, barking a laugh back at him. “Get back here!” Dreamer screeched. “I get you for that!” He scrabbled after him, quickly finding his paws on the loose ground to catch up and pounce. They tumbled to a stop with Wanderer on his back, and Dreamer pounced again and bit down on a foreleg with a growl.

“Stupid, land-things not lay eggs,” Wanderer chided playfully and batted him on the head with his other paw. Dreamer caught the next strike in his teeth and bit a little harder.

With a contented purr in his ears, Dreamer suddenly found himself pulled closer and wrapped in wings… _Nope, not quite okay with this_ , but Wanderer was already pushing him off to get to his paws. “See if more fish? I hungry.”

“I took fish from rock-head,” he mumbled, and Wanderer just nodded at him before bounding off to pester Tuffnut. Dreamer watched him happily receive a fat fish and ear scritches. Why did he have to feel so guilty doing the things he so sorely wanted to do? Well, he knew exactly why, he’d lost his balance and the Viking had a little too much control right now. It might take him a little longer, but he’d find that balance with this as well. At least things in the privacy of the den were just about back to normal.

He ambled the short distance back to the camp, mind whirring. As long as he was thinking more like a Viking, there were a few dreams he could put his thoughts to, and he needed to come up with a joke on Wanderer. He turned it all over in his head while he watched the new dragons get to know the riders.

The sun reached the height that they had to leave before or risk flying in the dark, and there was a faint and suppressed nervousness – would the new dragons follow them back?

The answer was no – at first. Fishlegs had apparently forgotten he could speak Dragonese, or maybe he just didn’t know how to ask, and the pair dismissed Dreamer as a hatchling being silly when he explained. Stormfly thankfully caught on and made the offer as well, promising food, safety, and a good nest just like she’d done for the Nightstrikers. The two dragons then set into the air with barely a glance back.

The return flight was uneventful. Dreamer had to rest three times, the winds were even less favourable and he wasn’t as fresh as the flight there, but he was sure to carry himself as far as he could this time. It stung a little that Wanderer only needed two rests, despite knowing why he was stronger.

Training started the day after they got back, and with the Nadder being bonded to Spitelout in the training ring Dreamer and Wanderer had excellent seats for the show. It did not go well. The first day was actually painful to watch; he was arrogant, short-tempered, refused instruction, and seemed to have no interest in bonding.

 _I should write a book_ , Dreamer mused to himself on the second day, ‘ _How to Train Your Viking’_ , as Spitelout once again waved off Astrid’s instruction and faced the mild-tempered dragon full of _aggression_ and _combat_. They would get nowhere at this rate.

Dreamer waved his wings to get the Nadder’s attention. “He think you toy. Show him you not.” He quietly snapped his teeth for emphasis.

Kingstail, as Spitelout was calling him, chittered thoughtfully, then waited for Spitelout to near. Instead of his usual placid and curious demeanour however, he reared up and bared his teeth, spines bristling and a threatening hiss filling the ring. Spitelout reacted, shouting up at him and raising his fists, but went deathly still when the sharp tail spines pressed against his exposed throat.

“Uhh… Astdrid?” he asked quietly while Kingstail snickered. Dreamer rolled his eyes, _now_ he was ready to listen to the expert. Maybe he really should write that book.

Astrid was clearly a little freaked out as well, and spoke slowly and carefully. “ _Don’t move_. Just carm down, he won’t hurt you.” She was moving in to take control of the situation, but Dreamer surreptitiously asked Stormfly to not let her near. Someone as stubborn as Spitelout needed drastic measures.

Beginning to realise this seemed to be a dragon thing, Astrid stopped trying to push past. She took a few steps back, gradually becoming more comfortable with the situation and subsequently harder to understand. “See? I don’t control my dragon, like I’ve been sayhing. I have to _truhst_ her, az she trusts meeh. Ayhy mean, would yoo want somewahn you didn’t truhst on _yoor_ sholdurs witth an axx to _yor_ throte?”

 _Finally,_ it seemed to be sinking in. Spitelout had been craning back to look at Astrid, and now he faced his dragon, stared into a single bright green eye, then held his arms out to his sides and closed his eyes. _Trust_ , he was saying without even realising it.

Kingstail warbled happily and withdrew his tail, then gave Spitelout a nuzzle. Looking a bit unsteady, Spitelout carefully stroked the dragon’s jaw with a nervous laugh.

“Lazywings!” Wanderer barked from a hover above, dangling vertically. “Come fly!”

Dreamer stretched, preparing for a hard flight. He still had dreams and plans, and would need an inordinate amount of strength to see them through, especially in this form. At least this body was _much_ more receptive to building strength than his last one, even long hours in the forge had failed to put any meat on him as his father had hoped.

Sufficiently warmed, he launched himself into the morning sky. He pushed himself hard, throwing far more energy into his movements than was required, mostly to build strength but also because the added snappiness was quite satisfying. When his wings and body burned from the effort he eased off, and just focused on keeping up with Wanderer, determined to stay in the air at least as long.

Later, as the sun rose higher, he crashed into a heap in their den. Wanderer wasted no time in putting his magical tongue to work on Dreamer’s aching shoulders and wings, and he almost drifted off on the spot.

By happenstance of where he’d dropped, he spotted something that did not belong, a small book wedged between the rocks… but the thought of so much as opening it turned his stomach to acid, so he just let his eyes drift shut. _Another day_. He drifted off, helped along by the soothing tongue gliding across his scales.

* * *

The Great Hall was the usual bustling scene of activity at dinner; the familiar clacking of bowls on tables, loud drunken conversations, and the occasional brawl breaking out. It was normally so peaceful, but Astrid had a bone to pick.

“I’m telling you guys, there’s something about the little Fury, he’s like a _genius_ or something. The way he watches you, it’s eerie, and you should have seen him today. I was having _so much_ trouble with Spitelout–“

“Hah, welcome to the club,” Snotlout muttered.

“–and I catch the little guy twitching that _Dragonese_ stuff, then everything goes wrong. The dragon nearly decapitates your dad, and Stormfly won’t let me near to calm him down. But then, Spitelout actually starts _listening_ to me like that was what he needed all along!”

“Yea-ap, he’s a little hiccup all right,” Fishlegs said meekly, staring into his cup.

...Speaking of weird. “Have you patched things up with them? You were all aloof for a while and then I heard about the incident in the ring, what was all _that_ about?”

“Nothing!” Fishlegs barked a little too quickly, going rigid. Everyone glared at him. “I mean, uh, um, I just, I stumbled on something, a little, er, private. Yeah.” The expectant stares continued. “Come on guys! It’s _private_. At first I took it all the wrong way, and Too–… _Toothy_ had to tell me what an _idiot_ I was being about it. You guys want to know, you can ask him yourself.” He crossed his arms in a rare but absolute _end of discussion_.

“Uh, yeah, except you’re the only one who can actually _talk_ to them,” Tuffnut drawled.

“Whatever. Hey, is my dad ready to fly yet? I have _got_ to be there for that, I’ll get to rub _his_ nose in something for once!”

Astrid ignored Snotlout; she’d had a _lot_ of practice. “Alright then Fish. Can you look up the flight training for the Nadder? Stoick wants Spitelout flying yesterday, and I’m a little rusty. It’s been… almost…” She thought of the little girl she’d been a year ago, wide eyed and soft-skinned, as Hiccup had effortlessly gained the trust of four dragons and shown them all how to fly together. She’d had to grow up _fast_ since then, finding herself handling a lot more minor Chiefly duties than planned, but she was still a long, _long_ way from Chiefdom.

Without fail, _everyone_ had had trouble with a little girl trying to settle disputes, especially with Stoick’s reputation taking on water. Thankfully, Vikings always respected strength, and most were willing to overlook the girl for the couple thousand pounds of fire-breathing reptile by her side. Stormfly was directly, if only partially, responsible for the stability of the village, and Astrid considered her friendship a gift from Hiccup. Just another thing he’d done for the tribe that didn’t deserve him.

Fishlegs interrupted her reverie, “Y-yeah, sure, come by mine when we’re done here and I’ll make you a copy.”

Later that night, Astrid stared at the ceiling from her bed and listened to the snoring of her family. She couldn’t stop turning over recent events in her head, and her new Chief-in-training instincts were scratching at her. Something strange was going on, didn’t _feel_ right, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it.


	8. Assurance

Struggling to keep a dignified face, Stoick watched as the big Gronckle effortlessly lifted the support beams for the catapult into place. It was the work of ten men, and without the ropes and leverage. Earlier that day it had made a dozen short trips around the main island to store logs for drying, moving them faster than they could be debranched and debarked, the work of four men and in a fraction of the time.

They’d only needed a day to settle it, then a day to train it. _Two days_ , and on the third day it had already returned the manpower invested in it.

Stoick had killed more Gronckles than he cared to count, staring down most of their glowing maws. He hadn’t thought them particularly strong creatures, they certainly posed little threat compared to a Monstrous Nightmare or some of the more exotic dragons, but their slow and bumbling movements were deceiving. After all that labour, it looked that it was now done warming up and was ready to get started. Its bulbous tail wagged playfully as Hork, the head lumberjack, slung a large fish high into the air, and its wings blurred and thrummed energetically as it buzzed up to catch it.

Absolutely unbelievable.

They wouldn’t be able to keep working at this pace, of course. It took months, ideally at least a year, to properly dry wood for building, but they only had two drying sheds and most of the wood in them was too fresh to use yet. It was tempting to add a third, but it would use much of the wood they had remaining and right now they had other priorities.

With the two halves of the catapult’s structure secured, Hork directed the Gronckle to pick up the arm and lift it into place, which again was done in painless moments with a dull _thud_.

“Can’t believe it, Chief,” Hork said, stepping beside Stoick to watch the final pieces go together. “Must admit, I wasn’t thrilled when you ordered me to this. We’ve been fighting these things a long time, an’ it’s hard to forget the damage. _Even_ knowing the truth of it. But ol’ Horrorbull here, well, he might just be enough to change me mind. Hel, if we’d had him a year ago…” After a minute of silence, he sighed. “No, I don’t think we were ready for it. Many still aren’t, that last year was a bad one.”

“Aye,” Stoick agreed solemnly, and another minute passed. “What could you do with more of them?”

“Nothin’. We don’t have the wood that just this guy can handle, even as it is some of my men will need to find other work.”

“Good, Thor knows there’s still work to go around. Send the youngest straight to Gobber, he needs a new apprentice.” He’d have to ask Fishlegs for more ideas, as well as throwing the idea to the village at large. Centuries of making do with whatever they could had turned them into an ingenious lot, when they had to be.

As Stoick stared, the thick clouds parted enough to let the sun shine through directly behind the head of the catapult, giving it an unearthly glow. An Omen? He was already treading a fine line… But Stoick had an uneasy feeling that was nothing to do with the dragons. Vikings liked to fight, it was in their blood, and when the arrows started flying Berk would need all the strength it could get; he refused to spend another day in oppression. If they could file that strength under peaceful terms, such as gathering or construction, then all the better.

That was a point, all the dragons required for their service was food, but Berk would need to expand her fishing fleet if they were planning on bringing in more. A chuckle rose in his chest as a thought took him by surprise.

“Uh, Chief?” asked Hork uncertainly.

Stoick wheezed out a reply between laughs. “Oh Hork, don’t – don’t ye see? The dragons are – rebuilding our village, when – just over a year ago they – they were burning it down – _for the same reason!_ ”

Hork did find this amusing, though not nearly as much. Maybe it was a Chief thing. Valka and Hiccup would have laughed.

The unbidden thought of his lost family instantly sobered him, and he took a long, slow breath. As dark as the days were to come, however, the worst had to be behind him, and Berk needed its Chief now more than ever.

* * *

There was a warmth to the air, a sign of short nights and wild angry skies to come. The last pockets of ice were melting, and the nights were becoming shorter and shorter. The hot-season was on its way.

Hrr, as close as these small-lands got to a hot-season, anyway. Wanderer was used to it now, but as a fledgling – the first time – he remembered all the seasons being much warmer. He’d underestimated how bad the cold-season here would be with these tiny bodies, and it had been a good thing Dreamer had recovered his memories when he did or they would likely have frozen to death.

And since then, neither of them had gone hungry. Well, Dreamer still wasn’t eating enough, but that was not due to lack of food. He was now looking a bit healthier, his spine wasn’t standing out on his back and the bottom of his ribs were no longer painfully obvious, but he was still very thin and a bit twitchy. At least his flying was now more relaxed, all those jerky movements had softened into appropriately lazy drifting, letting the wind do the work for him. There was still the odd day the tension returned in full force, and his appetite rose and fell like a Spine-Tail fishing, but overall it was a steady, if slow, improvement.

The wind turned to a good direction, perfect for coasting on, and Wanderer smirked. With tiny adjustments to his wings, he drifted up and over Dreamer to nestle a little weight onto his back.

“What you doing!?” Dreamer snapped up at him.

“I sit on _your_ back. I think I sleep. Try not fly us at rocks again.” He snickered as Dreamer flicked him with an ear and ducked away. They were flying back to the old nest, the one where the bad queen had been. The Long-Paws probably wanted more nest-kin; it was good to take new blood from other nests.

The wind turned again, bringing new smells and a hint of heavy damp indicative of rain, maybe a storm. Wanderer looked up at the few white clouds far above, longing to weave around and between them. It would take time to return to those heights, mostly for the strength to work the thin air, but they would get there.

In the meantime, he was kept occupied fussing over Dreamer, and by the strange and interesting Long-Paws who flew on their nest-friends. It was a long flight from the hunt-eat-sleep-hunt-eat-sleep monotony of the old nest, and for that Wanderer was grateful. He felt he hadn’t matured at all in his time there, and been further hindered by the near continuous thought-sapping Song of the queen.

When they coasted down to the beach of the warm nest, Wanderer again looked at the mountain and its entrances, and was again tempted to go inside. He might not have particularly liked this nest, but he’d not begrudged it either – just the queen in it – and it _had_ been his home for several cold-seasons. No… It wasn’t as if he had any friends there, and without the order imposed by the queen he could not predict his reception. At best, he might start fights between maternal mothers and the more territorial individuals. He was with Dreamer now, and wouldn’t regret if he never saw inside again.

He wrestled with Dreamer in the loose rocks while the Long-Paws did Long-Paw things, and as usual Dreamer was far too ready to give up his height. He’d been right when he said he wasn’t a fighter, but Wanderer needed to work him out of that thought. If either of them ever wanted a mate, or possibly even to survive that long, they would _both_ need to be capable fighters. Some confidence might even help his bad-thinking.

“This not joke Dreamer!” he shouted sternly as the Nightstriker he was sat on struggled and sunk into the pebbles. Wanderer huffed and dragged him out by the scruff of his neck, then repeated himself. “You need learn! No let me get above you!” They wouldn’t start aerial play-fights for a while, but if Dreamer couldn’t even fight with his paws on the ground he would have no hope in the slippery air.

“Yes,” Dreamer shook absently and bounded off to the Long-Paws. Rrgh, Wanderer had forgotten how little Long-Paws listened, sometimes even Dreamer. What would it take to get through to him?

He moved a little closer to the others, then nestled himself comfortably into the smooth stones to think. When he’d been learning to fight he’d had a habit of always dodging to the same side, and that habit had been punished harder and harder until he broke out of it. Dreamer didn’t seem to want to fight _at all_ , and this plan was likely to put him off play-fighting too, so it was grounded.

Similar ideas drifted along and were all shot down one by one. This problem was just too _alien_ to deal with in the normal way, and anything he could think of would only push Dreamer away. Maybe he should ask Fish-Legs about it, he might know what to do.

Fish-Legs was otherwise occupied by a boisterous Spine-Tail he’d taken interest in for some reason, who he recognised with a start. Wanderer had broken up a fight in the nest – the queen tended to resolve such matters by eating everyone involved – earlier in the cycle he’d been grounded, and found the young Spine-Tail in the middle of it. Hungry and desperate, he’d been orphaned right after returning to the nest and had no idea how to fend for himself, so Wanderer had paired him up with a dam who had lost a fledgling to illness.

Fish-Legs was struggling to gain his trust, so Wanderer flapped over and warbled a greeting. Now that he could get a better smell he was certain it was that same Spine-Tail, though he’d grown big and proud since then. Wanderer was oddly warmed by it; he felt he’d actually saved this life instead of just prolonged it.

He received a chittered greeting back and they exchanged scents, the Spine-Tail’s quills quickly perking up. “Nightstriker-kin! I know sire! He save!” Wanderer reared up and allowed himself to be nuzzled.

“Sire was great Nightstriker,” he said quietly, wilfully misinterpreting, and the Spine-Tail hummed sadly with it being all too close to his own experiences. “This Long-Paw ask you join nest. Much food, much play. Make Long-Paw friend. Good, safe nest.”

Warbling thoughtfully, the Spine-Tail inspected Fish-Legs. He had been busy making lines in his Long-Paw-thing, but at noticing the interest in him he held out a fat fish for the Spine-Tail. He also did a strange one-eye-blink at Wanderer and tossed him a fish too. There wasn’t going to be argument over that.

When the Spine-Tail plodded off to introduce himself to Stormfly, Wanderer barked to get Fish-Legs’ attention. “Why you not talk?”

“I do. They not tree.”

“…They not like?” Wanderer offered.

The Long-Paw squinted and scratched his cheek. “Yes. Sounds rock.”

 _I think I see the problem,_ Wanderer thought to himself, the talking lessons had gone similarly badly at times. He supposed the sounds _were_ a little similar, and the Long-Paw language seemed to rely more on clicks and tuts and less on pitch and tone. He was also learning that while Dreamer had spoken much with his body, other Long-Paws mostly only used their bodies to say aggressive things.

 _This might be tricky then…_ “Need talk about Dreamer.” Seeing the tense reaction, he quickly added “Not about you.”

Relaxing, Fish-Legs pulled out his Long-Paw-thing again. “Yes. What?”

“Dreamer not listen how fight. He need learn how fight. How I teach?”

“Fight?” Fish-Legs pulled out his claw and waved it around – away from Wanderer – as if fighting off an imaginary attacker.

“Yes.”

Fish-Legs hummed, sheathing the claw and then holding a paw to his chin. “He not fighter,” he said simply, then chattered _defensive, aggravated, sympathy_ , in the Long-Paw way. “Sorry. I not know words.”

Rrgh, back to the ground. “I do something…” Wanderer warbled uncertainly, and went to check on Dreamer.

Dreamer hadn’t been a normal Long-Paw. It was much better for the both of them that he was now a Nightstriker, he was closer to normal Nightstriker than Long-Paw from what Wanderer had seen. And this way they could make a Nightstriker nest together when they found mates. Hrrr, but that was a long way off yet.

He stopped to look up at the wide, open sky, and took a moment to feel the wind over his tiny body. Given the chance, he would make the same desperate play again in a heartbeat; being grounded, starving, and hatched again was worth it. Even if it was occasionally very frustrating.

 _And on that wind…_ “Hey!” he called to Dreamer. “No annoy Fire-Scale, he not like talking.”

Dreamer turned away from the Fire-Scale to pout back at him. “Want talk! Talking good, learn things.”

“Yes. Learn how Fire-Scale eat Nightstriker fledgling.”

 _Huff._ “Not every thing want eat us.”

Wanderer flicked his tail. “Only need _one_ thing want eat us. I not want find which thing.”

The Fire-Scale lost what little interest he had in their conversation, and lay his head under his tail to nap.

“What word for not straight?” Dreamer held his tail up to demonstrate, the end hanging limply to one side. He would often ask for words, and Wanderer had long since stopped asking why; if it was interesting, he trusted Dreamer to tell him.

“Bent.”

“Word for very bent?”

“…Why another word? It not straight, it bent. Long-Paw-speak stupid.”

Dreamer stuck his tongue out at him, then tipped his head at the Fire-Scale. “His name ‘Very-Bent-Tooth’. Thought you like know, maybe you kin?”

He darted back from a snap of Wanderer’s _many_ teeth with a chattering laugh, but then Wanderer found his tail waving in amusement. If only Very-Bent-Tooth could understand what a name was and what he’d been given as one, he’d–… Wwrr, he’d probably react exactly as Wanderer had. Admittedly, it _was_ funny to think of him chasing the rock-head Long-Paw around, and he found he couldn’t blame Dreamer for laughing so hard while being chased around the ground-hole.

He _could_ still blame Dreamer for giving him the stupid name in the first place. _What is with Long-Paws and teeth!?_ Maybe because their own were so blunt and useless.

This all attracted the attention of the familiar Spine-Tail, who approached them eagerly. “Nightstriker, you have kin!? Your sire very lonely. Have kin very good.”

“Yes,” Wanderer chuffed proudly, then carefully watched him and Dreamer exchange scents. When the Spine-Tail repeated his condolences for their sire, having now confirmed they were blood-kin, the look of confusion on Dreamer lasted less than a heartbeat and was immediately replaced with a convincing show of sadness. It was very good to see this sickness had not dulled his mind at least.

Storm-Fly – at least _that_ was a more sensible name – with her Long-Paw on her back challenged the new nest-kin to a race, and they were quickly both specks in the distance. Wanderer was not impressed, in a cycle or two he and Dreamer would screech past them with ease.

Dreamer picked his way through the loose rocks to him. “What name for… scale-flying-hunters?”

“…What?”

“Nightstriker, Spine-Tail, Fire-Scale, Rock-Scale, Two-Head, what name for all? And others?”

“Wing-hunters.”

Dreamer rolled his eyes, his frills flicking irritably. “No, that also say feather-wing-hunters. Only scales.” While Wanderer was trying to figure out what he was asking, he added “Things you nest with.”

“Nest-kin?”

“That only nest, and also say Long-Paw now,” Dreamer groaned.

“…Yes?” This was another weird Long-Paw thing wasn’t it? “Tell me what mean.”

“Wwrr, have scales, wings, some nest in sea, some have fire…” He tried to add more, but kept cutting himself off with a grimace.

“I think you not know what this Long-Paw word mean,” Wanderer chided smugly.

“I know word! This… hard explain…”

Wanderer crooned mock encouragement and licked him between the eyes, then blocked the bats aimed at his head and lunged with a playful growl. Moments later, he was sighing from atop his scaly black perch. Maybe he should fix one problem before moving on to the next.

He stepped off and let Dreamer climb out of the hole he’d struggled himself into, then lay down next to him. “Dreamer, how you feel?” he asked levelly, and watched for the subtle tells. The twitch of the frills, a swish of his tail, his eyes narrowing… Okay, this was Dreamer, he wasn’t subtle in the slightest.

“I… better. I feel more Nightstriker, just… hard sometimes.”

“I can help?” Wanderer warbled hopefully.

Dreamer hummed thoughtfully. “You do lots,” he said with a purr and a brief nuzzle. “But… not attack Fish-Legs again.”

 _Huff_. “Only if he not need again… Why you like him?”

Another thoughtful hum. “He nice. We talked lots, played sometimes.” He shook his head. “I thankful for him. But maybe… Wrr, it not matter now. I have you.”

Wanderer was surprised when a wing draped over his back, if a little stiffly. “Dreamer… You not need do this if not feel good.”

“…I _want_ do this,” Dreamer whined quietly, but he was too still, his breathing too measured and too deep.

Shrugging the wing off with his own, Wanderer nuzzled him. “Yes. But slow. Later, in den.”

“Sneaking feels… wrong," he growled. "I too slow. Half season like this… Not fair for you.” He curled up a little on himself, shuffling his paws. “I worry you, you sad… Also you live through lots more bad and I grounded over stupid thing.” He let out a long whine. “Sorry… I try be strong like you… But I–”

Wanderer snapped at him to stop him from finishing that thought. “This not about strong.” He spread his wings, beautiful and majestic, to loom above them. “I strongest nest-kin. Stronger than queen, we show that. But… I let her take my thoughts, watched her… _eat_ nest-kin, do nothing. I always do nothing. You, small fragile Long-Paw, not do nothing. Bad queen dead. Your nest lives, has much food. _You_ do.”

Dreamer scoffed. “ _You_ kill queen. I sat on you.”

“ _We_ kill queen,” Wanderer corrected. “I wings, fire. You do flying, fighting. You mind.”

“…Two in one…” He hummed quietly. “You body, I mind.”

“Yes.” It was an apt way to put it, he remembered putting his complete trust in his Dreamer and responding to his subtle movements. The pressure of his legs, the tightness of the binds as he leaned and pulled, the _confidence, fight,_ _protect_ he shouted into the fray. It _was_ almost as if they’d become one being.

Put this way, however, it was difficult not to compare it to the power the queen had held over him. An involuntary relinquish of control to another, as he could not fly and feed himself otherwise. He held none of this against Dreamer of course, he couldn’t fault the Long-Paws for striking back at him, and for whatever reason Dreamer had then helped as best he could. Wanderer had even enjoyed the flying itself, sharing that experience with another in that way had been… there were no words to describe it.

However, he had done nothing but relinquish control all his life. First when Dam screeched at him to fly far, far away, then to the wind when he found himself lost. To the queen, when he eventually stumbled into her territory, then to Dreamer, and to the Long-Paw nest while he nursed his precious cargo. Finally, when the cold-season subsided, he left and took back his independence – only to lose it again to the returning cold-season.

He gave a sad-amused huff as he noticed Dreamer looking at him with concern. “I not regret. Never trade you for happy life… You my happy. You make my mind strong.”

“You _my_ happy,” Dreamer purred back at him. “And you give me strong body! Hrrr, I think I got better fish. This good body.” He held a paw up and flexed his claws, shook his wings, flicked his tail, but then paused. “…Thank you… I not think I say that before.”

Wanderer snorted. “We thank you-me-you for every thing, we here all night. It good you Nightstriker. Your body now. Not want think otherwise.” That line of thinking was a little too close to some torturous memories.

Dreamer shuffled his paws, ears drooping. “But, you strong mind. My nest do you very bad… before fight with queen. My _sire_ do you bad. You still…”

 _Huff_. “I be nice.” Wanderer debated how much to say… then realised he was being hypocritical, telling Dreamer he was strong and then holding back for fear of breaking him. But he couldn’t look at Dreamer while he spoke. “I not strong. I… not can trust. I know nest-kin not hurt us, I know… but I not feel safe. When intruder in den, I think you right, but not want stay. I just… danger everywhere…” He took a deep breath to steady himself, scowling as it wavered. “We grow big next cycle… We survive next cold-season. That all I think. Survive cold-season, then we strong. Then we can _choose_ stay or leave. Then I not fear.”

He stole a glance at the Nightstriker next to him, heart drooping at the _worry_ and _love_ in his expression, then for a while they just leaned against each other and watched the smell-alikes chase each other in circles.

“Things better after cold-season,” Dreamer agreed firmly as the Long-Paws prepared to leave. “We just survive cold-season.”

* * *

This was getting ridiculous, and after another fitful night of wondering Astrid had decided it was time she knew the truth. It was laughable how many signs there were, like they weren’t even _trying_ to be discrete, though why they would hide it in the first place was beyond her.

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” she growled from Stormfly’s back. The temptation to wave her axe was strong, but it wouldn’t accomplish anything here.

“’Cause frankly, it does nae yet concern ya.” Spitelout, on the back of his dragon, regarded her coolly as he spoke across the small sea-stack.

She scoffed. “Stoick’s attitude after the Thing, archery contests, fletchers complaining about strange requests, training the Furies, more dragons, catapults, a hundred things! You’ve been preparing the village for outright _war_ and nobody even knows about it!”

“Tha’ may be the case. ‘Appens all the time. Well, yeh wouldn’t a’ noticed over an ongoing war with flying, fire-breathin’ reptiles, bu’ it ‘appens.”

“Look, if I’m going to be doing this one day then _I_ at least should know what’s going on, or at least why you won’t tell me.”

Spitelout thoughtfully stroked his beard. “Ya may be righ’ there lassie, bu’ it’s no up to me. Ah will say, that we Vikings are a rambunctious lot. Tell us a war is comin’ an’ we’ll get ourselves _riled up_ , bu’ when it turns out ter be paranoia, or resolves itself peacefully? Then yeh’ve got a problem.”

“That… makes sense.” Astrid said carefully. “But as the successor of the Chief, and practically head of dragon affairs–“

 _“Nothin’ ter do with ya,_ ” Spitelout repeated. “Chief has ‘is reasons. Ah assume you already spoke to ‘im?” Astrid nodded slowly. “Well there ya go then. Trust ‘im, he knows what he’s doin’.

“But not using our–“

Spitelout cut her off by flying away on Kingstail, resuming his patrol around the fishing grounds. _Warn and report, do not interfere_ , the order made no sense! They should just burn down any boat who dared attack them again, that ought to put a stop to it.

Fine, if that was the way they wanted to play it, she could only trust them, play along, and hope it didn’t get anyone else killed. She just wished they trusted her.

* * *

Snotlout stormed through the village, _on foot_ , looking for something to beat up. He probably wouldn’t take his frustrations out on Hiccup now even if he was alive, and Fishlegs always seemed to be around that Gronckle. Sparring with Tuffnut was tempting, but he was a slippery opponent and usually made Snotlout angrier. It had been a while since he’d needed to do this the old-fashioned way, it was _very_ satisfying to set sea-stacks aflame and just start fires in general, but that was the current source of his frustration.

He yelled wordlessly down the village, but the children scurrying out of his path and even the impressed nods of the adults did little to soothe his mood.

“Oh hey Snotlout, what’s up?” Fishlegs called, buzzing in on his stupid fat dragon. Like he could ever understand.

“My dad took Hookfang!” he shouted, then cursed at himself for sounding whiny. He wished he could just beat up the flabby muttonhead instead, that would be much easier, but Meatlug was watching him carefully.

“Ahh, what did he do this time?” The words were infuriatingly smug.

Snotlout threw his arms up. “Nothing! Sure, he set fire to the wood stack again, but he does that like, _every week_. It’s nothing new.”

“Neither is Hookfang being confiscated, to be fair.”

“Yeah? Not for _three days_. When I went to break him out, he growled and snapped at me until I left. Normally he’d just set me on fire and we’d laugh and fly away, but no. I dunno what’s gotten into him.” He crossed his arms.

“Have you considered… training him to _not_ set things on fire?”

“Uh, _yeah?_ He’s thousands of pounds of flammable reptile.” He sneered, “Oh but you wouldn’t know anything about that, your dragon spits _rocks_ , not fire.”

Fishlegs laughed at him. “I’m pretty sure the problem isn’t the dragon.”

“Fine! I’ll show you!” Snotlout stalked off, growling wordlessly through his teeth and ignoring whatever jibe Fishlegs shouted after him.

 _Fine._ He could channel this, just in a different way. He needed a new dragon anyway – the thought stopped him in his tracks, and he turned back to where Hookfang was being held. Well, ‘held’ wasn’t quite right, ‘obediently sat’ was closer. _Hmph, well I’ll be sure to visit him occasionally_.

Oh yes. He was going to train and claim the ‘untrainable dragon’, Fishlegs’ own words, and then everyone would see how awesome he was. He’d no longer need to drill military lessons, after all who needed strategy when you had a Night Fury? Hiccup had proved that. His dad would start preparing him to be Chief instead of Marshal, and Astrid would respect him for the man he was. “Oh Snotlout,” she would say, “How have I not seen this side of you before?” Then she’d pull him off his dragon and…

He was still fantasising when he stumbled into the arena, misjudging the length of the ramp and striking stone with his foot earlier than expected. That was fine, nobody had been around to see that. _Okay, think_ … What did he know of the Night Furies? They went nuts for a batch of dried fish some idiot apprentice had dried whole, bones and all. Which were all back in the village. No problem, a quick jaunt back on–… foot. He growled at himself and started the jog back. Well, it was a good workout, he’d been getting lazy with a dragon to zip around on.

Back in the arena, out of breath and idly swinging a fish from its shrivelled tail, he tried to remember what else he’d heard. Fishlegs said they were hard to train, something about being really smart. Hmph, Hiccup had been really smart and Snotlout had had no trouble training _him_. This was going to be _easy_.

“Hiccup! Toothy!” he called, but the stables were empty, they were probably out flying. No, he wouldn’t be dissuaded, he would sit here and wait for them. He plopped himself down in the middle of the ring, crossed his arms, and waited.

And waited. And waited.

He was doing pullups from the fence surrounding the ring when the two Furies glided down to perch on the bars opposite and stare at him. He dropped down, making an amazingly smooth landing, then retrieved the fish from where he’d stashed it in a box and drew his knife. They perked up and dropped down as well, each happily snapping a small sliver out of the air.

Alright, now they were more comfortable. Which one did he fancy? Hah, like that was even a question.

“Come heeeere Toothy,” he bade, waving a lump of fish pinned between his thumb and the knife. Toothy looked at him, then at the fish, then back to him. _Oh yeah…_ That was the other thing, they wanted the fish _first_. Well that wasn’t happening.

After ten calls the dragon still wasn’t budging, just looking between Snotlout and the fish. Nope. Nuh uh.

After thirty or so calls, Toothy yawned widely and laid down, and Hiccup got bored and wandered off to a patch of sunlight by the edge of the arena. Still not happening.

He completely lost count after Toothy curled up and made to go to sleep. “Fine!” he snapped and threw the morsel, which was instantly snapped out of the air despite the dragon’s appearance a moment ago. _Then_ Toothy approached, calmly sitting down about a pace away.

Progress… sort of. Not really. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Go over there,” he said, pointing in a random direction. Toothy looked at him, looked where he was pointing, looked at him, then laid down again. Growling, Snotlout tossed another piece of fish – smaller this time – in that direction just to get the frustrating dragon a little further away.

“Come on Snotlout, put that awesome brain to work!” he told himself. He went through all the ways he knew of dealing with infuriating smart people, and stumbled on a memory of when Hiccup had still been young and innocent.

A devious smile crept across his face.

* * *

Wanderer didn’t like this smile on the young Long-Paw, and Dreamer’s quiet hiss said he didn’t either.

The smile was gone in an instant, replaced with nonchalance and superiority. _Wwrr, here we go again_ …

The Long-Paw – Dreamer only ever called him rock-head – said _command_ in their strange language and pointed down at the ground. Wanderer sat down and yawned; he could do this all day.

A little of that repugnant smile returned as he slowly carved off a piece of fish – and tossed it to Dreamer, who looked at the tasty, chewy morsel in surprise. Ever so slowly, the toothy joke-smile crept across his face. _Sss_ , now there were _two_ suspicious grins directed at him, and Dreamer’s jokes were very tricky. Wanderer narrowed his eyes at him and then the Long-Paw. _What game are you playing…?_

The Long-Paw repeated the sounds and the motion, then slooowly carved off another piece of fish and tossed it to Dreamer as well. And again. And again. Dreamer was looking increasingly smug, purring loudly and making exaggerated motions of chewing and licking his chops.

What was happening? The fish was now half gone, and the rock-head was veeery slooowly carving out a nice large chunk. When Dreamer shot him an excruciatingly smug look at this next instruction, Wanderer growled and grumbled and trudged to the Long-Paw. He was met with an acceptably moderate amount of enthusiasm, the lump of fish, and another instruction.

He glared at the Long-Paw. _No_. But when Dreamer was tossed another fat strip of that chewy, tasty fish, then another, he grumbled and dutifully went where told.

Another instruction. No, this was humiliating, he stretched out his wings and made to take off – and the Long-Paw beamed and made to toss the remainder, about a third, of the fish to Dreamer. Wanderer paused, crouched low with wings straight up.

“…Go! Fly!” Dreamer encouraged him, baring his teeth in the joke-smile again.

Wanderer fumed, cornered. He wouldn’t hear the tail of this either way. “You say this Long-Paw rock-head,” he growled as he folded his wings. If he was joked either way he might as well get something out of it.

“Hrrmm, he rock-head. But he good at… this thing.”

He decided on a precise rebellion. Dreamer had received about half the fish by this point, but Wanderer was loath to outright obey, so while the fish remained he refused the first instruction and complied with the second. That way they’d each get half of what was left.

Except that rather than try to cut the head – the best bit – in half, the rock-head offered him the whole thing. There would be no second chance. Wanderer growled all of his scorn at this Long-Paw and went where told, though there was _some_ satisfaction in Dreamer’s disappointment; a small consolation.

The Long-Paw whooped and chanted, waving a foreleg in the air as he ran from the rock-hole. _Good riddance_.

Dreamer warbled at him. “You take new Long-Paw? He look… _heavy_.“

 _I can level from this fall_ , Wanderer assured himself while he sunk his teeth into the very satisfyingly chewy treat. “Hrrmm, they try on _all_ Nightstrikers?” Oh yes, that quietened him nicely.

* * *

Fishlegs eyed Snotlout suspiciously. He’d only been gone a few hours, and was now so giddy he could hardly keep himself still.

“Alright then Fishface, let’s make a deal. If I _can’t_ get one of the Furies to do something without feeding it first, I’ll do whatever you want for a _mo_ –… a _w_ … _two days!_ ”

Hmph, shows how confident he was if he dropped _that_ quickly. Still, Fishlegs’ curiosity was piqued. “And if you can?”

“Hmmm,” Snotlout stroked an imaginary beard while he thought. Something was _definitely_ up if he hadn’t thought of this part. “You admit to everyone that I’m the best dragon trainer and that I’m awesome.”

“I will admit you are a _good_ dragon trainer and I’ll never question your training abilities again.” As safe as it was betting against Snotlout, it was best to err on the side of caution.

“Deal. I only want to rub your stupid face in it anyway. Meet me before sundown in the stables,” he said as he started to run off. “and bring Astrid!” His chanting of his name could be heard disappearing into the distance.

“Well, this ought to be good, eh girl?” He rubbed Meatlug’s head and she replied in her deep, excited chatter. “Now, what am I going to have Snotlout do for two days…? Hmmm…” He’d have to think on it later, Hork had asked his help in relocating a Timberjack that seemed tempted to nest in the logging grounds, and Astrid was waiting for him there. He filled a sack with fish from the nearby storehouse, attached it to Meatlug, and departed.

Once they’d shown the Timberjack a nice flat to nest on at the opposite end of the island and made sure she was settled – no small feat, as it turned out – Fishlegs caught Astrid before she went to take off. “Hey, Snotlout wants to meet us in the training ring at sundown. Says he’s trained the Furies.”

“Oh ho, _this_ I gotta see,” Astrid murmured with equal parts surprise and eagerness. “Should we bring the twins?”

“Sure, why not. _If_ we can find them, Odin knows what they get up to with their time.”

She groaned. “Hopefully they mellow out over the years. Tuffnut’s been better lately but I’m having trouble settling Ruffnut down anywhere.”

“Yeah, have fun with that. Glad _I’m_ not going to be responsible for them.”

Astrid groaned again as they took off.

Exactly _what_ the Twins had been doing scaling the Great Hall, it may never be known, and Fishlegs had learned not to ask questions. At least it had made them easy to find. He’d also learned not to worry when they did things like _jump off_ the Great Hall, because by some fluke they always walked away from it, such as now when Barf and Belch swooped in from nowhere and caught them mere feet from the ground.

The sun was still a ways up, but with nothing much better to do Astrid dragged them to the training ring to drill and train, as that was apparently the subject of the day. Admittedly, they hadn’t been getting as much done as they should have, with Fishlegs and Astrid being busy and the twins… being the twins.

Right on cue the two Furies swooped in as the sun touched the horizon, perching on the fencing above the ring to watch. Hiccup still looked terrible, and was now about half the size of Toothy; Fishlegs’ fault, partially, but he wasn’t sure how to make it up to the little guy other than grant his wish of treating him like a regular Night Fury… as best he could. Hiccup and Toothy had both been right, he wasn’t entirely happy for knowing. It was at least nice to know they were alive, but so far only awkwardness had come from it.

“Fishleeeegs?” Astrid waved in front of his face, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You okay? You’ve been zoned out a while.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Hand signals, right?”

“No, Snotlout is here.”

Ooooh, that. His bet with Snotlout. In hindsight, it had probably been poor judgement to go along with that, but he had no way to do anything about it now. He cast another look at the Furies while walking Meatlug to the side, they were chatting between themselves too quietly and quickly to keep up with. Toothy looked a little grumpy, his dangling tail flicking irritably, but then they gave each other a _terrifying_ smile full of teeth that set Fishlegs on edge.

“Watch and learn from the master, Fishface.” Snotlout announced with his arms spread wide. “Astrid, I devote this to you. You look gorgeous today by the way, very sharp.” He gave her a lecherous smile while she just stared back deadpan. “And now I will reveal to you all what shall become known as ‘The Snot’.” He finished his act with a flourish as everyone snorted, then waved a dried herring at the Furies to entice them down.

Fishlegs was getting better at reading the Furies’ more subtle expressions, and if he had to put a word to their current ones it would be ‘stern’. They sat down several paces away from Snotlout and each other, so that they formed a sort of triangle; this must also be part of it, they were normally inseparable.

“Oh good, you know the drill,” Snotlout said idly as he cut the whole dried fish – Fishlegs made a note to ask Hiccup about their obsession with them – in half. He waved the tail end at Toothy and beckoned him, but the Fury just stared. Snotlout grinned, and – to everyone’s surprise – tossed the fish at Hiccup, who snapped it out of the air. The Furies still held eerily straight expressions.

“Come here Toothy,” Snotlout repeated with a regal gesture.

The Night Fury took slow, measured steps forward. The wrong Night Fury. Hiccup, sitting slowly near Snotlout’s feet, gave him that same feral grin with the tail of the fish poking out from the side of his mouth.

“Wait… wha…?” Snotlout took a few shaky steps back, frantically looking between the two Furies and the fish in his hand.

“Ha, you moron, that’s thff–“ Tuffnut got out before Ruffnut clamped her hand over his mouth.

Fishlegs could see his method, recognise it for what it was. It may very well have worked before, if the Furies were just messing with each other. It might even work properly under different circumstances. However, by bringing everyone here and trying it again, he would be humiliating them, and this new Hiccup would not have simply taken it or allowed his friend to take it. And so, they had humiliated him instead. It was poetic, in a way.

Except for one _small_ detail – Snotlout did not _do_ humiliated. His tiny brain couldn’t comprehend it. Fishlegs realised this all incredibly quickly, being familiar with Snotlout. Not as quickly as Hiccup, who was already jumping back. But even that was not as quick as not thinking at all, which was exactly what Snotlout did before his boot connected with the inside of Hiccup’s foreleg.

The little Fury spun in the air with a shrill cry, nearly landing on his paws but stumbling to the ground.

Everything happened at once. Tuffnut and Astrid had crossed most of the distance before Hiccup even came to a halt, and Snotlout disappeared beneath them with the sounds of iron on stone and choking. Toothy was instantly at Hiccup’s side – Fishlegs hadn’t even seen him move – to check for injury. Hiccup looked more surprised than anything, and just watched things unfold.

When Astrid had moved, Stormfly also thundered forward but without clear directions she could only prowl around the edge of the confrontation, spines flexing dangerously. Hookfang was none too pleased with having his rider assaulted, but was equally confused and could do nothing but bluster from the side.

“Everybody calm down!”

“Stop it guys!”

Fishlegs and Ruffnut looked at each other, startled, but then nodded and leapt into action; Ruffnut to diffuse the situation with the pile on Snotlout, and Fishlegs to calm the dragons. He first edged around the ring to Stormfly and put a hand either side of her head, prompting her to still, then guided her backwards towards the wall. With a stroke up the top of her head and along her head spines, she calmed enough that she no longer seemed ready to leap into the fray herself.

Hookfang was more riled, with a greater temper and with his rider the one under attack – it was uncertain if he’d been watching the stunt – but Fishlegs grabbed a horn to hold him still. A gentle tone and a comforting hand on his snout had him bring his wings back down and settle into a nervous crouch, good enough for now.

He then turned his attention to the Furies. _Please let this not be awkward…_ The best way to calm Toothy was to attend to Hiccup, so he sat down next to the little dragon, did his best to give him a concerned and comforting smile, and held his hand out.

Hiccup eyed him warily, then shuffled forward and offered his right foreleg, the one that had been kicked.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” he said quietly, lightly pressing on the leg and working his way up it.

 _Yes_ , Hiccup responded, pulling his head back to watch. When there was no reaction to pressure anywhere, Fishlegs gently moved the leg through its range of movement, watching for any sign of pain. Only a small twinge as it was pulled to the side.

Glancing at the others, he murmured to the dragon. “Small nod if yes. Does your shoulder sting? Ache?” _Yes_. “A little?” _Yes_. “The impact feel bruised? Deep bruise? Nothing?” _Yes_ , but slow and uncertain. “Nothing worth mentioning?” _Yes_. “Wow, that made things a lot easier. I’d envy Gothi, though she has to deal with, you know, _that_ lot.” He tipped his head back to the pile of teens behind him, and they grinned at each other.

He sighed. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth. I should have seen this coming.”

 _You, not, know_ , he translated in his head as Hiccup talked. _We, not, –, also_.

Fishlegs did his best to repeat the unfamiliar sound, and Hiccup tapped the top of his own head, then put a claw to his lip while looking up.

“Think?”

 _Yes. We, not, think_.

“I don’t think anyone expected this. Don’t worry, your–… Stoick will _not_ be happy about this.”

Hiccup snorted and rolled his eyes.

“It doesn’t seem injured, but try to stay off that leg tonight. Tomorrow, start stretching it, but only until it hurts. Don’t push it.”

 _I, good,_ he said, stamping a few times to demonstrate. He didn’t seem overly upset about the ordeal, maybe he wasn’t bluffing. Fishlegs had to appraise him anew, even with – or perhaps even more obvious because of – his malnutrition, his body was rippling with dense muscle, and he probably wasn’t even adolescent yet. He also expected Toothy to be baying for blood, given previous experience with the dragon, but he was just sat calmly and protectively between Hiccup and the pile of teens.

Everything with the dragons seemed to be in order, so he stood up and went to check on Ruffnut’s progress with the others. Astrid was still kneeling on Snotlout’s arm, glaring bloody murder, but the head of her axe was no longer pinning him by his throat. Tuffnut was stood to the side looking disappointedly at Snotlout, in his haughty judgemental way.

“Hiccup’s fine, maybe a slight twist of his shoulder but not so much as a bruise,” Fishlegs announced.

“That’s not the point, Fishlegs,” Astrid growled through her teeth. “He attacked without provocation, he needs to be reprimanded. _Severely_.”

“Hey, he provoked me plenty!” Snotlout shouted from the ground, but shrunk back as the axe loomed over him.

“Woah woah woah,” shouted Ruffnut as she grabbed the pommel of the axe. “You’re too close to this Astrid, it wouldn’t be fair judgement.”

“What, you think Stoick is going to be any fairer?” Astrid said coldly.

Ruffnut shook her head. “No. What do the Furies want?”

Fishlegs took a breath to speak, but Tuffnut got there first. “They look pretty chill about it. Life in the wild is, tough, dangerous, they just learn to avoid the dangers.” He jerked a thumb at Snotlout. “That means him, now.” Huh, that was consistent with observations. Sometimes Fishlegs had to remind himself which of the two of them could actually talk to the dragons.

“In that case…” A sadistic smile stretched across Ruffnut’s face. “We should give him to his dad.”

Eyes widening in sheer terror, Snotlout started stammering. “No, no, I– I’ll do anything! I’ll clean the stables! Do your chores! He’s okay anyway, right? No harm done? Just don’t…”

“Hmmm, yesss,” Astrid purred as she watched his reaction, weighing her axe in her hand, then rose to her feet. “Come on then.”

Snotlout rose slowly but took a step back, away from her and the exit. Astrid’s axe spun. “If you don’t come,” she said slowly, levelly, “you won’t be there to make sure he gets the full story… About Hiccup being _unharmed_ …”

Snotlout visibly paled, then his eyes fell to the ground. “Lead the way…” he mumbled, hanging his head.

* * *

While all eyes were on Snotlout, Dreamer tailed Wanderer into their den and out of sight.

This was so backwards. Nobody had cared about Snotlout lashing out before, just told Hiccup he needed to ‘toughen up’. Now that he was Dreamer, he’d been more surprised than hurt by the attack – nothing compared to a deer kicking him in the chest – and everyone was making a huge deal about it. How absurd.

Wanderer turned to him, but Dreamer cut him off. “I good.”

“I know–“

“I not hurt, nest not let him do again. Also we–“

“Dreamer! I know. You not fragile now. But… you need learn how fight. Fight, not play.”

Tension burning in his chest, Dreamer lowered his gaze to the ground between them. “I not fighter…”

“You _need_ know how fight. I… need you know… Nightstrikers strong, very strong, but not if not know how fight…” He took a few steps forward to put himself under Dreamer’s vacant stare. “ _Please_ ,” he whined.

“I not _want_ fight…”

“Then not fight,” Wanderer said quickly. “Know how fight, but not. Better than not know, but need fight. _Please…_ ”

“…Maybe,” Dreamer warbled slowly. “But… later? I not… feel good with this…” He lowered himself to the ground, shuffling his paws either side of his head to try to stop them from covering his eyes as they wanted to.

“…Yes. Later,” Wanderer purred, padding over to nuzzle between his top frills. Dreamer shuddered in guilty pleasure as a wet tongue ran down his neck and between his wings, and pushed his paws forward to keep them on the ground. His hearing sharpened to listen for any sign of the teens outside… but they were fading into the distance, which allowed him to slowly relax a little and focus on unknotting the tension in his chest. He didn’t need to worry about his shoulders, they were currently being taken care of…

Wanderer was very thorough, and by the time he was finished Dreamer was laying limply on his side and panting through loud purrs. He watched the failing light through unfocused eyes, mind drifting in a strange absent awareness, though his hearing was kept sharp by remnants of the knots deep in his chest. Mostly, from the guilt of his failure to reciprocate… but then, in this lucidly detached state, he realised Wanderer had never expected him to. His paws _would_ have gone over his head with that thought, had they been able to move at all.

And Fishlegs… had been nice to him. Genuinely nice, concerned for him. Dreamer had been too shocked to do anything other than offer his leg to be examined. Nobody other than Wanderer, not even really Gobber, had _ever_ cared as much for his physical wellbeing before. For the first time, he didn’t… _completely_ resent Fishlegs for his prying.

…Which reminded him of something…

The thought brought the tension back, but that gave him the energy and will to get his paws under him. Lethargically, he padded over to the side of the den, teased something out from the little nook it was hidden in, and carried it out into the wane moonlight.

Gingerly, he opened the small book and absorbed the first drawing. _Left-handed_. Left-pawed? Well, there was little he could do about that. He flipped the page. Oh yeah, he’d opened the door on his first night in the village, having been unconscious when carried in. He wouldn’t have seen how it worked, and Wanderer had not been able to… Heh, that had been a good joke. He flipped the page again to find a rough sketch of himself staring accusingly, with a note that he’d known what a reflection was and where it came from.

There were examples of his innate trust of the villagers versus Wanderer’s distrust. The occasional time he’d been a _little_ too understanding of something being said, and sometimes just that he’d known to pay attention when something important had been said. Wanderer’s aptitude for flying against Dreamer’s obvious inexperience… and finally, several pages of notes while Dreamer helped Fishlegs learn Dragonese.

In hindsight… this was mostly very obvious. At the very least he should have made Wanderer take over more of the Dragonese lessons, particularly in areas Dreamer didn’t know so much about and needed to ask the more experienced dragon. He cocked his head at the last page, then flipped through the book a bit more quickly. The writing and occasional drawing was progressively frantic, more and more hysterical. The poor boy must have thought he was going insane.

He sighed and read through it a third time, slower, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. The basic lessons to take from it were that he and Wanderer needed to tone down their knowledge and experience to the others’ level – Dreamer with his knowledge of living in the village, and Wanderer with his knowledge of being an adult dragon. That was doable, he had the most changes to make, and Wanderer just needed to not to show off his flying so much while Dreamer learned. He could be a _bit_ better, but no more pulling off everything flawlessly. They could talk about it tomorrow.

“Hey, Spine-Tail?” he chirped quietly. A shuffle and curious warble indicated she was still awake before she emerged from her den. “You can fire this?” He set the book near the centre of the ring and stepped backwards. “Please.”

She warbled wordlessly at him, confused, but plodded forward and bathed the book in white-hot fire, the hottest of all known dragons. Light flooded the ring, Dreamer’s eyes adjusting quickly enough that the discomfort lasted only a moment, and after a few seconds the assault ceased. Eyes quickly readjusted to the darkness to see Stormfly tilting her head to examine the red-hot stone as it dimmed. Of the book, barely as much as ash remained, not even a scrap of the leather cover was to be seen.

Dreamer walked forward, heedless of the heat under his paws. “ _Thank you_ ,” he nuzzled as she gave a purring croon. On a whim, he licked under her rounded chin, and she pulled back with a rattle as her spiny frills stood up. They slowly lowered back down as she considered him.

She leaned forward again, and he squeaked in surprise as her giant tongue knocked him over. There was no aggression or malevolence as her giant mouth tenderly closed down on him, and his body reflexively went limp. He was acutely aware she only had to bite down and that would be it, but the sharp teeth didn’t hurt, and it was with the utmost care that she carried him. He idly watched the ground pass underneath with the regular intrusion of large talons, and just let himself dangle.

Ever so gently, she set him down on the stone and quickly enveloped him between her body and wings. Even with his incredible night vision it was almost pitch black, some moonlight just barely soaking through her wing membranes and peeking through cracks. It focused his other senses, heightened his awareness of her soft leathery chest he was wedged underneath, her light musk punctuated by the smells of leather, scale and chitin. His instincts were a little confused, as if he’d been put to bed in someone else’s house. “I not your hatchling!” he squeaked uncertainly.

Stormfly’s head appeared above and nuzzled him with an almighty purr that vibrated through his whole body. “Just this night,” she warbled melodiously before enclosing him again. He wondered somewhat giddily if this meant he had two adoptive dams now. Rrrmmm, it was hard to think straight with her deep, rumbling purr rolling through him.

He was vaguely aware of sounds. The cocoon briefly opened and Wanderer was dropped in next to him, then they were squashed together in a tangle with very little room to move.

“…What happening?” he asked quietly as he shuffled to get Wanderer’s back-spines out of his side.

“Just relax, it good,” Wanderer replied, nuzzling Dreamer’s flank – simply where his head happened to be. “I think… we need this. Me also. Maybe Storm-Fly also. It good.” His purrs were drowned out by the ones radiating from the soft wall pressed against them.

Dreamer had no idea how to feel about it… but before long, he didn’t care how he felt. Right now, at this moment, he was just so _incredibly_ warm… and… _safe_ …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarification - "size" does not mean "height" so it would be more accurate to say Dreamer weighs about half as much as Wanderer right now. He's just noticeably smaller in all dimensions.
> 
> This chapter originally had a wildly different ending, one that was completely pointless and very out of character, followed by a path I have since realised I don't want to take (thank you Aelan-the-Guide for allowing me to bounce ideas off you). All in all I scrapped over a third of the chapter. Never before have I been so glad for my writing process, I have no idea what I was thinking when I originally wrote this two months ago.
> 
> That being said, I have no idea how I ended up with this either xD I just kind of put my fingers to the keyboard and when they came away I had a good length chapter with an ending I'm quite pleased with. It's strange watching this story evolve, I have a skeleton of how events will unfold over four main arcs but little idea of the development of the characters along the way. They are dynamic. Dreamer having his 'Hiccuppyness' reasserted was important, but it was not my intent to continue nudging him away from his loyalties to Berk. The motivation behind the last scenes were purely to fit the personalities of Snotlout and Stormfly, but I am more than happy to build the resulting effects into the rest of the story and see where it takes us.
> 
> And with that note, 'Arc Zero' comes to a close. _It is time we get started._
> 
> **(( 71BCqL2ecoE ))**  
>  "Warrior" 


	9. Assault

Astrid stepped out into the misty dawn, rolling shoulders and flexing muscles in preparation for her morning drills. Summer was a beautiful time of year with long and often sunny days, a time of productivity and growth. Also a time of high tension and irritability, but she felt more prepared to deal with it this year.

She broke into a jog up to the Great Hall where she ate her fill of fruits, cheese, bread, and chicken. She also casually slipped a few drumsticks into a pouch before making her exit, and after another quick stretch she took off at a brisk jog. The rhythmic thumping of her boots on the bridge echoed down to the channel below, and she focused on the sound to ensure it was still crisp and sturdy as well as feeling for any flex in the boards.

The greenery had threatened to overtake the path in the spring, but now that they were heading into summer the growth had slowed down. Regular visits to the stables maintained a trim wall of leaves in some places, but the path they had worn to the cove last year was completely hidden. After the war had ended, she’d gone there every morning the weather had allowed until the melting snow filled the basin with water; it was probably returning to normal about now. She was accustomed to losing friends and relatives, but Hiccup had been different for some reason. It wasn’t so much his death that had shaken her, but his life.

Astrid respected strength, in all its forms. The boy had certainly possessed a sharp mind and – unfortunately – a tongue to match, but what had struck her was his conviction when he finally found something to fight for. That one word of reply when she’d incredulously asked if he was going to betray his village, and the fire in his eyes as he spoke… It still prickled her skin.

Her heart went out to Toothless, wherever he was. Most thought he’d run off to die, but he could have stepped out into the storms any time he liked. No, he’d specifically waited for spring, which meant he had a plan. Probably best not to spread that idea though, it would not do well for word to leave the island of a downed Night Fury.

She clamped down on her thoughts, _get a grip Astrid_ , and picked up her sloppy pace. Even after a whole year, passing that path still zoned her out. She needed to be stronger than this, that was all behind her now and she should look towards the future. _But there will never be another Hiccup_ … She beat the ground harder, focusing on the rhythmic _thump thump thump thump_ of her boots.

At least this little routine pushed her limits, and she reached the training ring out of breath but always a little faster. Stormfly was patiently waiting for her in the middle of the ring; Astrid was never sure if she rose early or woke to the heavy footfalls. “Morning girl,” she cooed after steadying her breath. “I got something for ya!”

Stormfly chittered and bobbed happily at seeing her rider, starting to walk over, but went still when a chicken drumstick was revealed. It was best to get them out _before_ the dragon smelled them, that was always trouble… Astrid gestured, holding her fourth and fifth fingers up, then pointed them at a target leaning on a bench at the side of the ring. Stormfly flicked her tail to neatly deposit two spines into it without even looking. Astrid grinned and tossed the drumstick to be snapped out of the air, she had to wonder what the appeal was when it was just swallowed whole like that but whatever made her friend happy.

She procured a second drumstick from the bag, earning Stormfly’s avid interest again, and made a circular motion with her forefinger. The dragon chittered and jumped into the air, quickly swooping out of sight. Astrid used the few minutes of solitude to properly replenish her oxygen, getting her breathing completely under control before a shadow fell over the ring.

“Good girl!” she called out and tossed the drumstick up, and it too disappeared into Stormfly’s giant mouth. “Alright, come on down and we’ll see what you’ve got today.”

The saddle was inspected and secured, and Astrid strapped herself in. She spared a glance at the Night Fury stable but as far as she could tell the pair seemed to rise well before dawn. Maybe she’d find them today, she was curious what they did with their time. The ground then shrank below her, and Stormfly laboured up into the low clouds.

Presumably the experience was different for Hiccup, as he actually had to control part of his dragon, but Astrid was now understanding his advice. Neither rider nor dragon was in complete control, and yet both were. When the two clicked, they operated with the same mind and _felt_ each other like an extension of their bodies. She closed her eyes and focused on the wing muscles tensing under her hands and thighs, the movements of the body against her feet, and a hundred little details that told her what her friend was about to do. And it seemed all she needed to do was _think_ about going in a direction, and they would.

That was why this test was so important; there was no accounting for everything, and she wanted to be prepared. Carefully, Astrid pulled the third drumstick from her pouch and waved it by Stormfly’s eye, then tossed it over her shoulder.

 _Woah!_ The disconnect was instant, and only a tight grip and a sturdy harness kept the dragon from bucking her off in a snap turn and dive. And the _speed!_ As the strain of rapid acceleration wore off she had to close her eyes to the wind that continuously slapped and pulled at her face.

The experience ended as quickly as it started. Stormfly levelled off into a glide, the deceleration pressing Astrid into the saddle and squeezing the air out of her. Somewhat groggily, she pulled herself upright and sucked in a few measured breaths. “You’ve been holding back on me girl,” she chided, apparently reminding Stormfly that her rider was still on her back. The big head turned to inspect her, then warbled apologetically. “Hey, it’s okay, I knew what I was getting myself into. But I’m not some doll, okay? You can play rough.” Hmm, that wasn’t a bad idea actually, maybe if they fought in play like the Furies did with each other they would better respect each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

Astrid’s view of the horizon became partially obscured as Stormfly’s head spines flared, and Astrid followed the direction she was looking. There was a speck in the distance, one of the Nadder scouts it looked like, working his dragon into a frenzy for speed. Astrid grit her teeth. First she’d find out what had him spooked, and then let that determine how _severe_ his education would be.

She pulled Stormfly into an intercept course, but some way there the mists receded and a figure sailed out of them. A lone boat emerged from the gloom, large and ominous with an enormous sail, but Astrid couldn’t make out the crest.

Six boats emerged behind it. And then a dozen behind that, and another three dozen behind that.

The intercept forgotten, Astrid only realised she were getting closer when she recognised the crest on each of the sails – a sinuous dragon in flight, covered in spines – and tugged Stormfly into a bank to return to Berk. The fleet was less than an hour away, and definitely headed straight for her home. “Could really use some of that speed now girl,” she muttered. There was no way her dragon could have heard her, but they surged forward regardless, the onslaught of wind forcing her head down and her eyes closed.

Thankfully an hour by boat was only minutes by dragon, and they swooped over the village to the booming call to arms and landed roughly near the Chief’s house. Astrid left Stormfly with the other Nadder, Sunburn, who was still jittery and shaky. _No excuse_ , but she would have to deal with that later. She let herself in, noting the dim but recognisable hulk of her mentor. “Chief? I saw–“

“Astrid, good timing,” Stoick’s outline rumbled in his very serious tone full of confidence, giving her just enough to get her hopes up. “Get the other riders together, get everyone off the main island, then take the dragons to the flat behind the village and keep an eye on things. Don’t come down until it’s safe.”

She nearly fell over. “I, _WHAT!?_ ”

“ _Now!_ I _don’t_ have time for your second-guessing today,” he snapped, then, to the other dim figure, “Let Astrid take care of your dragon, and go get me Spitelout,” before disappearing into the back room.

Astrid gaped into the dim light. They’d been _training_ for this, both Viking and Dragon, and they were just being… moved out of the way!? She stormed outside and stood there, fuming. Okay, she needed to calm down, be reasonable about this. She made a show of calming Sunburn, though Stormfly had done a pretty good job already, and waited. She paid no attention to Spitelout entering, but tailed him as he left.

“I–“

“Ohhh, back for more?” he idly cut her off. “I would no go there if I were you, jus’ do as yer Chief says.” He rolled his head a little when she kept talking.

“But we’ve trained for this! We’re ready, we can fight!”

“Yer no yet an adult, lassie.”

“You know how much I’ve done this last year! And we have _dragons!_ ”

Spitelout gave no warning, no tell in his stride or posture. One moment he was striding through the village, the next his fingers were around her throat. Her eyes boggled as she tried to backpedal and found that her feet were no longer on the ground, and her arms grappled feebly at his wrist. She landed a solid kick on his torso, but he didn’t even flinch, just continued staring at her with cold, unconcerned eyes. She glared back at him, got a better grip on his arm and prepared to swing her legs up, but he chose that moment to let her go and she dropped onto her back, coughing and gasping for breath.

“You know how many times I could’a killed you by now, righ’?” He leaned over her and pointed out to sea. “ _Those_ fellas won’ hesitate, an’ frankly, you’re too valuable to throw to the slaughter. The others too. Aye, we _do_ know how much yeh’ve done, an’ tha’s why yer being sent ter watch our asses instead o’ bein’ locked in the Great Hall with the other kids. Now, if yer _quite_ done wastin’ me time, I have a war to prepare for.”

Astrid grit her teeth as he strode off, she would _not_ break down here, not in the middle of the village. She was made of stronger stuff – but she had been so helpless just now, completely at Spitelout’s mercy, and it had her shaken. He was right… she wouldn’t last five minutes on a battlefield. She’d had this grand vision of swooping in on Stormfly, setting flame to swaths of invaders, but they had a total of eight dragons plus two baby Furies. These invaders had probably a thousand warriors, all of whom hunted dragons for sport.

She laughed. It was all she could do. Well, she could at least get some people to safety.

* * *

Stoick stood at the dock and watched the lone boat approach, resting his hands on the pommel of his sword planted in front of him. The remainder of the invading fleet was visible, some fifty ships strong, but held position a respectable distance away. As the ship neared, a short figure became visible at its prow with disproportionately large horns on a full open-face helmet.

“Stooiick!” a semi-familiar voice called out over the water. “It’s been forever! Did you expand your dock? Ooh I can’t _wait_ to see what you’ve done with the place!”

“Dagur,” Stoick greeted the boy curtly as the ship bumped against the dock. He _was_ still a boy, on the cusp of manhood but just not _quite_ there, regardless of what his attire said. “The rumours are true then?”

“About dear old daddy? Yep! Dead as a dragon on Berserk. But I didn’t come here to talk about him.” Dagur hopped over the rail and landed solidly on the dock, in front of Stoick. They’d only met on a few occasions, and he’d certainly inherited the Berserker lunacy, but ‘unhinged’ seemed a more appropriate word for him right now as he quickly shifted between immoderate expressions while talking. “I’m here about a different rumour. Wait, is that them? Ooh ho hooh, I’m getting goosebumps! But they’re so… _tiny_.”

Stoick blinked and followed his gaze. A short way above and behind him on the ramp up towards the village sat Toothy and Hiccup. He wasn’t sure if their presence would be a help or a hindrance, but things could hardly go worse than he was expecting. It was unheard of for a Berserker fleet to back down for any reason. “Ah, our little visitors? Yes, they’re quite good with the kids. But you didn’t have to–“

“ _Hand them over,_ ” Dagur growled, his face determined and grim when Stoick turned back. “If you do, I promise to leave _something_ of this _stupid_ island on the map. Oh, _please_ say no…”

Stoick made a noncommittal gesture, turning one of his palms up for a moment. “I can’t give you something I don’t own. They’re wild dragons, here of their own voli–”

“STOP PLAYING GAMES WITH ME!” came the shrieked reply. Unhinged was _definitely_ the word for this.

“…Alright then.” Stoick turned to the Night Furies. “Toothy! Hiccup! Come here and go with this nice man, will you?” Honest to Odin, Hiccup stuck his tongue out at them, and Stoick barked a laugh before he could stop himself. “Well, that answers that. Tell you what, send your fleet home and I’ll grant you and, say, two of your men access to our island for a week. You can chase them all you like in that time. I’m being more than reasonable here.”

Dagur’s eye started twitching, and his lips curled back. Perhaps unhinged was too mild a word. “Reasonable? REASONABLE? What, so you can hide them or send them off!? I don’t THINK SO!” he shouted hysterically through his teeth. Stoick fought the urge to roll his eyes; he wouldn’t have needed to do anything, they were smart dragons.

The point was moot anyway. Dagur’s face flipped from unbridled rage to maniacal, as did his voice as he spoke. “So, ‘Stoick the Vast’, huh, actually not so vast anymore. Going soft after losing your runt? You even named your pet dragon after him… You’re WEAK, you’re a DISGRACE to Vikings, and Dagur the Deranged is here to put you OUT of your MISERY!” Oh, yes. Deranged. That was a much better word.

Sighing, Stoick gestured up towards the village, some hundred feet above them. “You might have numbers, but there’s a reason we built here. You’ll not get up these cliffs.”

“We’ll see about that! Oh I _do_ love a good battle, nothing like the smell of blood in the morning! Be sure not to die too quickly now, we’re looking forward to a hard fight!” His mad laugh was flat and seemed somewhat devoid of depth, like it was more a habit than anything else. The way he moved, Stoick wasn’t even sure he was aware he was doing it.

Dagur climbed back onto his boat and screeched for oars. Well, Stoick had been expecting war the moment he’d seen the Chief’s attire crudely fitted to the boy, so he wasn’t entirely disappointed. And better Berk than the Lava Louts or Meatheads who had much less defensible villages, and lacked other advantages that the Berserkers would be learning about shortly…

* * *

Dreamer watched with mixed feelings as Dagur’s ship pull out of the harbour. It had been a risk to come, but he’d needed to know what was going on. Was kind of hard to tell, Dagur changed faces so quickly and the shrieking and snarling voices that came with some of them were just noise.

He _did_ seem mainly interested in the Nightstrikers, if it came to it they could try to lure him away; Dreamer didn’t want to think about the state the village would have to be in for that to work. Other than that, all he could do was watch.

Up until today, he’d thought about breathing fire as a curiosity at best, and in terror at worst. Now he was sorely wishing for that long-range firepower that had levelled stone towers, without it he was as useful now as he was as Hiccup. _Less_ useful in fact, he couldn’t even help in the forge or try out any of his ideas – though these days the ones turning in his head weren’t so much related to weapons, the effect of the bola launcher had turned him off those thoughts. That said, the explosive Night Fury shots weren’t exactly something that fostered a peaceful resolution, just death.

“What happening?” Wanderer asked next to him as the boat left the harbour.

“That rot-head want fight. Also want us.”

 _Huff_. “They attack our nest?”

“Yes.”

Wanderer warbled sombrely, then took to the air. Dreamer followed and eyed the boats, they had maybe ten minutes before Dagur could signal the fleet and another fifteen for it to reach Berk. But his father had been right, Berk was not an easy place to attack, the top of the ramp from the docks featured high walls and thick gates, easily defensible. The only other way into the village was over the narrow bridges from the main island, and they could be easily defended or burned.

Even still, he was nervous. There were a _lot_ of boats.

He caught sight of Astrid on Stormfly looping over the village, and winged over to see what she was doing. He was surprised to find her looking… tired. Her face sagged and she slumped in the saddle. _She must have finally found a problem she couldn’t throw her axe at_ , Dreamer thought snidely. Okay, that wasn’t entirely fair, and she really did look down, so he caught up and chirped at her.

She stiffened and looked around wildly before spotting him. “Oh, Hiccarp. Hey theah…” She said more, but was drowned out by Meatlug’s thrumming wingbeats bringing Fishlegs up to speak to her. He appeared calm, but once his report was finished, the panic started creeping onto his face, and his hands trembled at his collar. She quickly gave him something else to do and his focus and calm returned, which was admittedly quite good handling of the situation.

His task was apparently to ask the Furies something. “You smell them?” he asked in Dragonese, then pointed at the forest. _What, why would we smell them in…_ Ohh, he wanted them to check the forest to cover their flanks. That was also a good idea.

He had to appraise Astrid anew, she’d come a long way in the last year compared to how shallow and self-centred she’d been before… well, Dreamer could think on that later. He chuffed an _affirmative_ and turned to motion to Wanderer, but he’d already started a shallow dive towards the trees. Clearly he was also keen to help his nest however he could.

Dreamer caught up and pulled in beside him. “We look from there,” he gestured to a sharp rise at a tangent to the cliff at the edge of the island, “to there,” he gestured to a cluster of dense trees on the other side. The line between the two points was a reasonable distance from the treeline, and mostly featured difficult terrain that would slow any group of attackers. It also offered the best cover for a quick hunt, and should not take too long to search.

They hit the ground running. It was harder now, but he managed to hand control to his instincts and let them focus his attention on the task. He snapped into the hyper-focus of being in complete control of every movement. Silent, swift, deadly, he was a hunter again, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring.

 _Stop_. His paws planted onto a thick tree root and his legs absorbed his momentum, instantly bringing him to a halt. He put his nose to the typically confused Long-Paw tracks, and followed them to a nearby bush they had brushed against to leave some more useful scents than the bottoms of leather boots. _Female, young, alone,_ not a Berserker army. Moving again to catch up to Wanderer.

 _Stop_. More tracks, laden with land-prey dung and hay. A farmer, he didn’t need to know more. He rocketed past Wanderer, ignoring whatever trail he’d picked up, and in short order had found footprints appearing to belong to an old man. It seemed the Berserkers were going for their typical raiding strategy, overwhelm with numbers in a frontal assault. When the Nightstrikers reached the cliff on the other edge of the island they just leapt off and soared on the wind blasting up it, quickly spotting and gliding over to the riders and dragons on one of the flats above the village.

With a quick shake of his paw at Fishlegs, Dreamer noted with satisfaction that while Snotlout was blustering his usual arrogance, he absolutely _reeked_ of fear. _Moron_. Below, his excellent vision could pick out most of the adults gathering along the lower cliffs, facing the approaching armada. A few were herding children and teens – some of the older kids were being physically dragged – to the Great Hall, where they would be safer.

The Berserker fleet had rearranged into three wide rows, each boat practically touching the ones beside it, and were minutes away from engaging – with a yip, Dreamer was snatched up and bundled into an embrace.

“Oh Hiccy, Toothy, thank Thor you’re safe. I dunno what I would have done if I lost you guys,” Tuffnut cooed as Dreamer squirmed to get free.

There were gasps around him and the embrace loosened enough that he broke out, but all he could see were the rows of warriors behind makeshift barriers and the approaching ships that were now dangerously close. _Huff_. He needed a better look, so took to the air and ignored the Long-Paw shouts that called after him. Wanderer followed, though his expression and body screamed _caution_. Dreamer wasn’t stupid, he was just going to circle overhead. Far overhead.

* * *

“Loose!” Nearly two hundred arrows sailed out over the harbour, this time all converging on a single boat. Perhaps two thirds of the volley bounced off it, and the rest disappeared into the water. Spitelout waited with bated breath, watching the boat in the distance and straining to see… A wild smile crept across his face as the licks of flame became visible, growing out of control. The first volley had gone out across several boats, hoping to set them all ablaze, but it seemed the Berserkers were capable firefighters and their sails were somehow fireproof. In hindsight, that should have been assumed.

However, with so many smudges of Nightmare gel burning at the hull the crew couldn’t address them quickly enough, and the stuff burned _hot_. They’d had trouble stopping it from burning through the arrows in the few seconds they were in the air.

“Fourth from the right! Ready! Loose!” he shouted again, and there was a muffled roar of another two hundred arrows lighting and the strums of them leaving the bows. With five more volleys, they put four more ships to the torch. The regular clunking and ratcheting of five catapults firing and reloading to their own tune filled the air, though most of the rocks landed with a splash and not a crash. The three ships they did hit sank in moments, leaving Berserkers floating in the water like ants.

It was all mightily impressive… but insufficient. The Berserker fleet slid inexorably towards them, still dozens strong, and when boats were sunk their crew would just grab onto another. Spitelout kept shouting the cues anyway, it was at least hindering the invaders.

The head of the fleet sailed from sight below them – the Hooligans were making their stand a dozen paces from the precipice, and they had no sight of the docks. They could, however, hear the boats crashing into it. Now, Spitelout was looking forward to a good fight, the last year had been very dull without the dragons raiding every couple of weeks, but what followed the splintering and cracking of the wood below set his back hair on end. The Berserkers unleashed their battle cries, feral screams that sliced through the air and grated on the spine. It chilled the blood of even the seasoned Vikings of Berk.

In scant moments, heavy footfalls could be heard reverberating under the ongoing declaration of battle, and the tops of three thick ladders peeked up from the cliff. They were followed by burly men throwing themselves onto the grass, landing on all fours but not stopping or even slowing down in their charge, teeth bared and eyes ablaze with fury and madness.

“Loose!” Spitelout called again out of rote as he hefted his axe and shield, and several arrows found themselves aimed directly at the invaders. The bulbous wooden heads bounced harmlessly from the war paint adorning the bare chests, but each strike left a fist-sized patch of flaming agony on the skin as the Nightmare gel transferred from the arrow. The animals didn’t so much as flinch, even as their flesh bubbled and blackened, so deep were their trances that the pain didn’t even register. It only served to make the sight unnatural and unnerving.

“Aim for the heads!” Spitelout bellowed as he leapt forward, a score of warriors roaring with him as they met the charge. He felt a mad gleam enter his eyes as his shield soaked up the first strike, an inhumanly powerful blow that nearly staggered his perfect form. He shoved his axe forward, burying the spike at the end into the enemy’s throat, then swept it aside to take out the animal next to him as well.

With a grunt, the man to Spitelout’s left went down to a blow that smashed through his shield and then his chest, carrying him straight to Valhalla. Spitelout offered his appreciation to the Berserker who had sent him by lopping off his head. It left him open however, and he couldn’t sidestep quickly enough to avoid a raking strike across his hip and a quick follow-up strike down his leg.

“Is tha’ the best you got!?” he shouted at his opponent while stabbing him in the heart with the spike. He hadn’t felt this alive since the last dragon raid, being too preoccupied with getting the village back on its feet to lead any raids. Thor smite him, if he lived through this he was loading up a boat with warriors and returning with a hold of treasure.

He suddenly didn’t like the way his shield felt against his arm, noting its bent frame and splintered boards. Shaking it off and throwing it forward, he retreated a few steps to pick up a fresh one, deftly swinging it forward to catch an arrow suddenly streaking for him. The line of defence staggered with the volley, and the Berserker advance pressed forward.

With a particularly obscene curse, he saw some more lucid Berserkers emerge from the cliff in between their frenzied brethren, who wasted no time with the Hooligans and leapt straight down at the gate. “NOW!”

* * *

_Nightmare gel on mundane arrows…_ That was Dreamer’s best guess as he watched another volley lance down to put another boat to flames even as the first Berserkers set foot on the island. They were bottlenecked on the ladders, but Berserkers fought with a complete disregard for themselves and with seemingly no heed of pain or death, and _so many_ boats were offloading their warriors… Even the crew of the sunken ships were swimming over and climbing onto the wooden planks. As unassailable as Berk was, this was looking _bad_. They should have collapsed the ramps entirely, but it was far too late now.

He grimaced as a volley of arrows sailed from the third row of ships, up and into the archers on the cliff. The low angle was a huge disadvantage but by sheer numbers some of them found flesh. Several sailed much too high and harmlessly into the deserted village. Those were some good bows.

Dreamer wheeled back over the harbour. He couldn’t even see the docks now, they were so overrun, and the Hooligans holding the cliffs had slowed the charge but were gradually losing ground. This was getting _very_ bad, he had to do something, had to–

The feral howls turned to a chilling cacophony of screams as fire spilled from the cliff, spun down the ramp, and flooded out across the docks. Thick black smoke quickly obscured the sight for which Dreamer was very grateful; it couldn’t, however, mute the curdling agony of hundreds of men being burned alive. If that was also Monstrous Nightmare gel – it couldn’t be anything else – those flames would sear skin from muscle in seconds.

He wobbled in the air, suddenly lightheaded, and added his breakfast to the scene. Wanderer was quickly at his side, crooning his worry. “I… I fine…” he stammered. “I think I need land…”

* * *

Ugly black smoke billowed from the docks, and the distant sounds of metal on metal rang up over the village. Astrid craned to see more, but from this distance it was pointless.

She’d been in dragon raids and knew the energy of a pitched battle, but from so far away it seemed… placid, tame. That smoke looked ominous, but she knew whoever was on the receiving end of it would have a very different opinion.

A wince crossed her face as movement flickered in the air from the ships, it looked like that third wave was full of archers. She could see some of the specks on the cliff dragging other specks back from the front line, and felt sick with worry for her family somewhere down there.

Something else entirely caught her eye – smoke was drifting up from one of the houses near the base of the village, behind the line of Hooligans. “Fire… Fire!” She spun on her feet, Stormfly instantly by her side and offering her the saddle. “Mount up, we’re back on fire duty!” She assessed the situation while the others scrambled onto their dragons. “Fishlegs, fill up whatever barrels you can from the sea, and keep them full. Ruff, Tuff, Snotlout, focus on the fires on the rooftops. Move!”

* * *

“Can’t you fire any faster!?” Dagur questioned the boats behind him, but he was met with silence. _Tch_ , he didn’t get why the women would all want to sit back with a bow, it was so _impersonal_ , but whatever. He and his men would be more than happy to carve up as many Hooligans as met them in battle, and maybe a few more for sport.

A rock clipped the side of the ship, staggering everyone on board. No damage was done below the water, and nobody had fallen and needed to be thrown overboard. Good.

“Get moving!” he commanded as the boat began to turn, swinging away from the docks packed with berserk soldiers, practically climbing over each other to get onto the island. Seemed likely they’d take the gate soon, but Dagur wasn’t going that way. The Hooligans fancied themselves smart, and it was suspicious the ramp was still there at all.

 _Whoosh_. Maybe a roar, but more of a whoosh from here. In moments, the docks had ignited in beautiful fire, and deliciously musical screams filled the air. Dagur gazed at the sight in gleeful awe; it was absolutely _stunning_ how quickly the bloodlust had turned to pain and death, not easy to do to a Berserker. Too often the first wave took all the glory, to the point it was often considered a mark of shame to be left in the second wave with nothing to do. In Dagur’s opinion, any opponent not capable of fending off the first wave was not worth fighting at all.

A mighty laugh built in his chest, and he thrust his axe to the sky. “FORWARD! TO BATTLE!”

* * *

Hobbling as fast as his peg would allow, Gobber trundled a cart bristling with replacement weapons and shields behind the front line. He was skilled enough in fighting dragons to do so without needing a shield, which was just as well since he couldn’t hold one, but only a Berserker would fight a Berserker without some way to block the attacks. He was sure his prosthetic could deflect a few hits, but the rate those shields were shattering did not match his confidence in his stump.

He was therefore relegated to a support role, along with a few young adults who weren’t quite ready for an onslaught such as that the Berserkers promised, and some of the less spry warriors who weren’t quite ready for Valhalla. Gobber figured he had a grip and a step in Valhalla already, the rest of him would follow in time.

That’s not to say he was useless, even with the crucial job of supplying new weapons and shields aside. Seeing an opportunity, he dropped the cart, grabbed a spear and hurled it into the fray. It buried itself into the shoulder of a particularly wild invader, not taking him down but slowing him enough that he’d be much easier to take out.

Returning to his cart, Gobber took a handful of weapons and dropped them onto the ground behind the Hooligans as they fought off the remnants of the Berserkers climbing up from the docks. Nasty business that, fire was not a nice way to go, but then again there were few _good_ ways to go in Gobber’s opinion. He’d been burned, bitten, slashed, and stabbed on more occasions than he could remember, plus being dismembered twice, and none of them had been particularly pleasant experiences.

He glanced at the fight just in time to see a Berserker tear a nasty wound into a Hooligan with an axe, flinging the heavy weapon around as if it were made of wood. Even as the Hooligan fell he was further relieved of one of his arms, Gobber’s spear taking the attacker square in the chest a few moments too late. He tried not to think too much of the ‘what ifs’ of the fight, how he could have saved his tribesman.

Squinting through the haze, he thought he saw movement – the Hooligan was still alive. For how long was another question, but perhaps Gobber could improve those odds. Abandoning the cart, he limped over to the shaggy mass and made a quick assessment – deep cut down his front, but he had his good arm pressed against that already, and the still-bleeding stump of his right arm.

No words needed to be spoken. Gobber whipped off his belt and tightly wrapped it a few times around the arm. Once locked, it stemmed the bleeding enough that the man had a chance. At least it was already a clean cut.

It was awkward, but a hook in the man’s collar allowed Gobber to drag him up to the healers without kicking him in the head more than two or three times. Again, no words were needed, Gobber just dropped him by the door and left the chorus of groans and pained shouts behind him while the injured warrior was dragged inside.

He reached his cart before realising he probably should have got his belt back, or at least a new one. Oh well, his straining belly held his trousers up well enough and he had a spare in the forge he could pick up when he went back that way. If he even needed to, it looked like the last Berserkers were now going down, though it was somewhat difficult to tell through the smoke.

A quiet whistle preceded a searing line of pain lancing across his shoulder blade as an arrow glanced off the back of his shoulder, causing him to shout in surprise. The wound was deep, and while not life-threatening it stung a lot more than it should have. Very suddenly, he was fed up. Fed up with being the cripple, with hobbling around behind everyone, and complaining about scratches. To Hel with Valhalla, he just wanted some fight in his blood to take the edge off his nerves and dull the pain.

He grabbed a sword from the cart and stumbled into the fray with a challenging warcry.

* * *

Grimacing at a multitude of wounds, including a rather deep and severe cut down his leg, Spitelout threw all his remaining energy into dispatching the axe-wielding Berserker in front of him. They’d been trading blows for a full minute now, and when his shield had shattered and possibly broken the arm under it he’d resorted to dodging. It wasn’t working very well. The acrid smoke still wafting up from the docks was not improving matters, though it was at least starting to clear.

Even though the Berserker he was fighting was freshly missing most of one arm, he continued a frenzied onslaught of attacks with foam dripping from his mouth. A Viking wasn’t downed by losing a limb, but this fool was moments from bleeding out. Spitelout actually felt contempt, Valhalla was for those who died in battle giving it their _all_ , and that meant using your head as much as your arm. It was the easiest thing in the world to run to a quick death in any fight, but that wasn’t how it was done.

These raiders were nothing but rabid beasts surrendering their minds to the mad frenzy that gave them their name. Oh it was certainly effective, had they attacked anywhere but Berk the fight would probably already be over, but it lacked finesse and tact. The Hooligans had stubbornly stuck to their miserable rock despite the dire storms that plagued it all winter and the dragon raids for the rest of the year. Fighting off land-bound animals seemed laughably easy in comparison.

But Spitelout had to admit, this particular animal was giving him trouble, and it didn’t look like help was coming soon. Only the fact that he was off-balance was giving Spitelout a chance at all as he desperately and unthinkingly threw himself away from wild slashes that still tore at his breastplate and bracers. He was barely being given a chance to counterattack at all.

Just to top it off, he caught Gobber taking over for a downed Hooligan nearby. Spitelout had to commend the man, taking on a Berserker without a shield, but Berk really couldn’t afford to lose him. Not after losing Stoick’s boy, there hadn’t yet been time to properly train up another apprentice for the smithy.

Spitelout’s divided attention was costing him, but landing a solid strike across his opponent’s sword arm at least slowed the onslaught of slashes. Actually, it might even allow Spitelout a chance to end the fight. He cleanly stepped aside a slower downwards strike and swung his axe at the side of the Berserker – but never made contact. His opponent swiftly lunged forwards and barged Spitelout with his shoulder, knocking him from his feet and to the ground a few paces away.

Looking up, he groaned as he watched Gobber step inside a swing to stab his opponent in the gut, but received a slice down his back and was thrown to the ground himself. _To Hel with it_. Spitelout dragged himself upright and threw his axe, it spun through the air and lodged itself in the Berserker’s chest. It was enough to stagger him, allowing Gobber to slash him across the legs and then relieve him of his head.

 _Good_. But Spitelout had his own problems to deal with, and now also weapon-less he could only roll out of the way of the axe bearing down on him. Would he finally know the glory of Valhalla? He’d stopped paying attention to Gobber so was a little surprised when a sword spun into the fight, but it bounced off and tumbled out of reach.

It gave him time for one last play, one last desperate strike before he would never know peace again. Vicious pain flared in his leg, but he pushed through it to rock back, tuck his knees to his chin and kick the brainless attacker looming over him. The Berserker didn’t even bother to dodge, just took the kick in the pelvis and went tumbling backwards down the slope and off the cliff.

Suddenly granted reprieve, Spitelout tried to cough the smoke from his throat and pulled himself to his feet with a sigh. Valhalla would have to wait for another day. He shot Gobber a stern frown, and received an innocently apologetic grin in reply.

The sounds of intense fighting drifted over the more scattered clashes around him; maybe there was hope for Valhalla yet. There was still a battle going on, though he couldn’t see enough to know where. _First thing’s first_ … He cut the shirt off a nearby body and used it to bind his leg, a little difficult to do one-handed and blinded by smoke. The second thing was to retrieve his axe, which Gobber handed to him with a curt nod before waddling back from the fighting. Ignoring the squelching in his sock, he clambered up towards the village and blinked his eyes clear.

The archers had bunched aside the rising smoke, and were systematically trying to work their way across the boats of archers, but many had been wounded and two of the catapults had gone up in flames – with a start, Spitelout spun to the village, but there was no smoke there. _Good_. At any rate there were still several boats of archers, and they didn’t seem to be going anywhere with the dwindling number of Hooligan archers.

The other battle was coming from the lowest field, where Berserkers had somehow managed to climb onto the island. The how didn’t matter, they were there and needed dealing with. Left arm dangling uselessly, Spitelout half-jogged half-stumbled back down, hoarsely shouting orders.

* * *

Stoick bowed his head as the Berserkers died in flame, most never even close to touching Berk’s soil. Some might see it as underhanded, but to meet them head-on was suicide and they’d be fools not to utilise the defender’s advantage. Particularly when that advantage included dragons, even if he wasn’t using them directly.

Some Berserkers had escaped the inferno, maybe two dozen who had been on the ladders or at the base of them where the fire had not touched, but they were being mopped up by Spitelout’s group in short order. Stoick narrowed his eyes at the line of ships he could see, the ones still sending arrows up to the island. “It’s not over,” he murmured to himself.

 _Chunk-chunk-chunk-chunk-chunk_.

From his position above and behind the line of defence, Stoick heard the big grappling hooks dropping onto the hard soil over the fading shrieks of dying men, and saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. “IT’S NOT OVER!” he roared, flexing his arm under his shield and bounding down the hill. “TO ME!”

He reached the first hook and sliced through the thick rope which whipped away and out of sight. The first Berserkers were climbing onto the grass as he reached the second, and a few avoided a plummet down to the unforgiving seas below. He went for a third rope, but a Berserker’s bare shoulder collided with his side and set him stumbling a moment – only a moment, and with a flick of his hand he spun his axe and cleaved up, alleviating the man of an arm and most of his insides.

Two more charged over the top of their fallen comrade, and their weapons collided with Stoick’s enormous shield. Twice as wide and three times as thick as the standard issue, it was more than enough to halt the longsword and heavy mace that embedded into it. Stoick wrenched the shield up, taking the mace with it, and swung his axe across to claim two more lives.

Three more replaced them, but he managed a swing at the ground to cut the line before dancing back. He glanced around for his reinforcements, there weren’t as many as he’d been expecting, and noted long arrows protruding from some of their shields. He quickly ran numbers in his head, there were maybe twenty ropes still intact with grapples holding, even only ten climbers each was two hundred invaders. _Not good_ …

His tribesmen courageously met the Berserkers with shouts and steel, and Stoick lunged forward shield-first with them to halt the advance. It turned into a vicious melee, wild Berserkers fighting manically even after losing limbs, but with the Hooligans fighting as a team and covering each other. Stoick sliced one man from neck to thigh, seeing too late a Hooligan go down to a Berserker charging past with wild swings. The man next to him would have followed, but Stoick’s thrown axe staggered the next charging invader enough that he was slowed and taken down.

The giant sword hummed as Stoick relieved it from its scabbard, a monster blade over a pace long and a hand wide that most would require two hands to swing. Not Stoick. The gleaming steel whirled and arced, batting aside the paltry weapons thrown into its path and cleaving everything else. It was slower than his axe, and the enemy was relentless, but he couldn’t afford to drop his shield to two-hand it. Berserkers fought with no regard to themselves, in theory it was laughably easy to bat away the first strike and dispatch them, but the reality was that first strike was _brutally_ strong and they literally fought until they died on their feet. Stoick was only kept alive by the thickness of his shield and the reach of his sword.

He roared into the fray, losing count of his kills as he split a swathe of Berserkers in half. They were unrelenting and unwavering, and would die to the man if it came to it, but the Hooligans around Stoick were not faring so well. He was being forced back to avoid being surrounded. A Berserker barged in behind the sword and met Stoick’s boot, and then a smaller figure, distinct by actually being fully garbed, surged towards him.

“ _STOICK!_ ” Dagur shrieked through his trance, leaping forward with an axe in his right hand and a sword in his left. Stoick met him with his shield, but the boy was _much_ faster than the other Berserkers and dodged the following swing with ease. “I’M GOING TO _SKIN_ YOUR NIGHT FURIES AND WEAR ONE AS A _HAT_ AND THE OTHER AS A _CAPE!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're leaving it there for the week =D
> 
> Not much of our Dynamic Dragon Duo in this chapter =( but it's out of necessity. Not really much for them to do here, and I'm sure you guys wouldn't be thrilled if I'd just said "Berserkers invade and kill a bunch of people" xP Also this absolutely smashes my record for "least amount of time passed in a chapter", particularly once the fight starts, but again I figured I should try to do the scene justice.
> 
> It comes to mind that I took over a month to write this. Part of it is that two previous chapters were split into two each, so it's not as bad as it sounds, but part of it was that I needed to step well outside the zone of what I've been writing so far. There is also that you may have noticed that everything thus far has focused on the DDD, and "boring human scenes" not involving them are short and to the point, because that is what I would typically want to read. Well, got there in the end at any rate. Hopefully it's a suitably epic introduction to the arc, and hopefully I'll be able to rebuild my buffer to something more comfortable over the next few weeks.


	10. Comprehension

Stoick pulled his sword across in front of him, then jerked the handle inwards to flick the immense weight forward. A tricky move to anticipate, as the blade suddenly leapt with unexpected speed and reach, and unique to this heavy weapon. _Intend to end the fight with every strike_ , his father’s words did not echo in his empty mind, but in his actions.

The blade whizzed over Dagur as he fluidly leaned under it, his face was twisted in rage but there was a strangely calculating and grounded look in his wide eyes. Just the fact that he dodged was disconcerting and very unlike a Berserker, but Stoick took it in stride and flipped his grip on the sword to swing down. It was nudged aside by the end of the axe, a wicked thing with a long tapered point on each blade mounted in opposite directions.

Stoick’s shield barely caught a sudden lunge from Dagur’s sword as well as the immediate follow-up from the axe, but was knocked away in the process. Before Dagur could strike again, Stoick brought his sword forward in a crooked stab, arm straining for speed. When his target dodged to the side, he flicked his wrist and the angle swung the weight of the sword to catch him, but Dagur threw his arms out and up so that the weight of his weapons threw his torso down and under the strike. From there he danced into a flurry of long slashes and thrusts that effortlessly flowed into each other.

Wet, icy claws of fear climbed into Stoick’s chest as he desperately blocked and parried the assault, emptying his head and tunnelling his vision. His breathing was suddenly heavy in his ears, muting and distancing the clashes around him. His sword would cleave anything it touched and Stoick could wield it faster than anyone else he’d ever met, but Dagur was either seeing through the strikes or reacting with inhuman speed, and the strength of his attacks were beyond his small frame. Clearly he hadn’t just been handed the title of Chief of the Berserkers, though Stoick couldn’t spare the energy to think about it.

The axe met the shield again with a resounding _crack_ , the impossible force behind it jarring Stoick’s arm, and the sword lunged around it towards Stoick’s throat; already behind the shield, much faster than his own sword and close enough to smell the blood coating its sharpened steel. He reflexively punched the arm with the rim of his shield, halting the blade at his breast to then rake harmlessly down his front.

In a moment of clarity, he became aware that the sounds of fighting were falling back behind him, but the Berserkers ignored him entirely to rush past. Either they trusted their Chief, or they feared him; probably both. Regardless, the battle was not looking good for the Hooligans, and even if Stoick defeated Dagur here it would not so much as slow the army. He grit his teeth and focused on the fight at hand, slowly moving back towards allies, hopefully faster than they themselves retreated.

Low to the ground, Dagur leaped to Stoick’s left and fed his momentum into his axe. Another splintering _crack_ rang through the air as it bit into the shield, thrown into the way just in time. A leap in the other direction, and a line of fire burned deep into Stoick’s sword arm, flaring with every movement and quickly becoming wet and sticky. He needed to end this, sooner rather than later. The axe swung again, Stoick angled the shield at the last moment so that it glanced off instead and threw Dagur to the side. The behemoth sword lunged forward, aimed for his chest, but he followed his axe to the ground and rolled back into his low stance.

They stood a few paces apart for a moment, chests heaving as they considered each other. Stoick’s surroundings snapped back into sharp focus, the stench of battle heavy in his throat, his armour slick against his skin, and his familiar helmet on his head somehow stifling. Arrows rained down around them, presumably some of the archers had moved over from shooting the boats, but they were simply ignored by their targets and did little to stem the tide.

Dagur casually leaned to the side to avoid an arrow flying at his chest, then lunged forward again with a guttural snarl.

* * *

From near the top of Berk’s spire, well out of range of any arrows, Dreamer watched in a stunned daze. He couldn’t… _fathom_ what was happening, his head just refused to wrap itself around the situation. His body felt numb and distant, he was barely aware of the air mechanically drawing into and expelling from his dry mouth.

He watched the burly Hooligans engage the slightly burlier Berserkers, constantly reminding himself that every person going down would never get back up, and that many of them were people he had grown up with. For a heart-stopping moment Gobber – easily picked out by his unique gait – had thrown himself into the fray as well, around the same time Stoick had bounded down to the cliff. Eyes wide with panic, Dreamer had frantically glanced back and forth between his mentor obscured in the smoke, and his lone sire cutting swathes out of the invaders climbing onto the island like ants.

Gobber had at last limped away, but Stoick was now up against an opponent who zipped around him like… like Toothless had around the queen dragon. The comparison put a pit in his stomach, and Wanderer’s wing pressed down a little more firmly onto his shoulders; as much for comfort as to hold him there.

 _Fear_. It clawed into the emptiness, almost a relief in comparison. In most places the Hooligans outnumbered the Berserkers two-to-one but just as many from each side were falling, all of which Dreamer had just watched numbly. As aware of this as he was, his seized mind wouldn’t form the thoughts, couldn’t process the numbers to tell him who was losing faster.

He could only watch, heart skipping erratically, as Dagur threw himself into the task of killing his father.

* * *

Stoick braced his shield against another brutal impact from the axe, and Dagur’s nimble sword lunged forward. Its heavy counterpart batted it aside and followed through to graze the Berserker’s shoulder, only quick reflexes left the wound there and not in the boy’s throat. The axe dug into the shield again, before Stoick could pull the sword back, and Dagur dragged it down to stab over its guard.

Tensing and twisting to the side, Stoick grunted as the sword pierced his armour and grated agonisingly across his ribs. He pushed back with the shield, growling as the sword was pulled from his body, but Dagur absorbed the momentum and used it to reposition and unleash another flurry of attacks. Stoick was losing a war of attrition, and his allies were still several paces away, to the side now as Dagur kept darting around him.

The axe slammed into the shield again, it was all it ever seemed to hit – the thought came as the sword stabbed _through_ the shield with a shrill squeal, through where the axe had been striking the same place over and over. A snarl tore through Stoick’s teeth as it pierced deep into his upper shield arm; that mindless realisation had allowed him to react quickly enough to avoid it going through his heart.

Dagur wisely let go of his sword, but he had been too close to drive the blade home. Stoick bunted him with the shield, pulling the sword free with a hiss of air through his teeth, and sent the boy staggering backwards. Dagur’s eyes flickered, his feet got under him and launched him further back to avoid a dozen arrows, but one found his calf. Seemingly oblivious to this, he made to lunge forward again but staggered with the discovery his leg didn’t work properly.

Stoick did not hesitate to clock him with the flat of his blade, sending him sprawling limply. Hopefully it hadn’t broken his neck, but by the way he tumbled like a child’s cloth toy he was unconscious at the very least.

As the weight of the battle lifted, the weight of the war crashed down. The clothes under his armour stuck to a dozen burning wounds, between the blood and sweat it felt like he’d been dipped in a barrel of slime. Rancid slime, given the taste and smell. His lungs strained to take in ragged breaths, and his whole body ached for rest, but if he didn’t move now he’d be surrounded. _Thor, I am out of shape_. “TO VALHALLA!” he roared, dragging himself back to life and dancing to the Hooligan line of defence.

His sword hummed to either side of him as he retreated, felling enemies who were just now noticing he was no longer fighting their deranged Chief. A hole opened in the Hooligan ranks and he plugged it with a quick glance at the Vikings who stood with him. Their faces were hard but keen for the fight, and a few of them spared him a glance with a thump of their chests when they could. Good. It was difficult to break a Viking’s morale through battle, but if any battle could it was this one. Taking down the enemy Chief had to be a huge boost to morale though, any Viking who fell here would arrive in Valhalla in shining glory and they knew it. Stoick, however, would prefer everyone survived. Valhalla would still be there in ten, twenty years.

But for that to happen… _Where are they!?_ He couldn’t look for his reinforcements, another wave of Berserkers was already crashing into them. A few of the shields splintered along with the Vikings behind them, and where the following counterattack did not immediately kill the attackers it allowed for a more deadly second strike. The Berserkers were less suited to such an organised defence, backed by battle-hardened Vikings no less, but there were just so Thor-smite many of them that they would still be the victors at this rate.

A bare shoulder slammed into Stoick’s shield and his injured shoulder gave way, shield arm crumpling into his chest, and he staggered back a step. The Hooligans either side of him were quick to dispatch the attacker, but that left themselves open and they were quickly cut down themselves. More stepped forward to hold the line, dropping spears in favour of swords or axes, but too late. The enemy surged through, creating a bow in the line of defence, a weak point that would soon break.

 _Finally_ , as if thrown by Thor himself, a heavy spear fell from the sky to skewer a pair of Berserkers and pull them to the ground where they struggled limply. The razor-sharp Nadder spine affixed to the end dripped with red, still somehow intact despite the impact and even shallowly slicing into a few legs as they barrelled past.

Another spear fell, and another, and soon they were raining from above. Stoick glanced up to the low cliff they were bottlenecked by, seeing with huge relief that the several archers were now some fifty strong and had all dropped their bows in favour of carts piled high with the spears. Hundreds of them.

Arrows occasionally got lucky shots, but these were heavy wooden poles that tore through the invaders and pinned or crippled where they did not kill, and the deadly hail was relentless. The waves of Berserkers slamming into the line of defence was reduced to a trickle, giving the Hooligans room to manoeuvre and more safely absorb and retaliate to the attacks.

Somewhat prematurely, Stoick let himself slump. He stepped back from the line and let his sword and shield slide from his wet grip, heaving for breath and grimacing at the scene laid out before him. It wasn’t as bad as some of the dragon raids the village had endured over the years… but it was close. The last Berserkers were barging through a tangle of wooden poles and every step was over a corpse, until they too resembled pincushions.

There was a moment of tense silence while everyone took in the scene themselves, looking for the next opponent and waiting for the next attack… but it never came.

“We’ve done it!” The words split the tepid silence, and the island shook with the roar of victory. But to Stoick, waving down the teens circling and hovering overhead, the din wasn’t nearly as loud as it should have been.

* * *

Vella eyed the figure descending through the air, reaffirming her grip on her bow but not drawing an arrow. The tension on the boat was palpable – they’d been thoroughly defeated, the fate of their Chief unknown, but before they could swing the boats around a shield was thrust into the air at the top of the cliffs above; a ceasefire. And so, Vella’s boat had remained while the others picked up stragglers from the water and drew back to defensive positions.

The figure was unmistakably a Monstrous Nightmare, lazily gliding down on its broad wings to land on a ledge by the still-smouldering docks. The huge form of Stoick the Vast dismounted, a towering giant of a man Vella was only now appreciating the scale of; they’d all heard of him of course, but the tales failed to do him justice. He was built like a Gronckle, had a beard as red and glorious as the rising sun, and was covered shield to sword in blood. By _Thor_ he was hot.

She peered over the distance at what was slung over his shoulder – no, _who_ was over his shoulder. _It couldn’t be_ … Stoick held aloft the limp form of Chief Dagur, then set him down on the stone, re-mounted the dragon, and took off. That was… surreal. The rumours of Berk taming dragons to the saddle were clearly true, but as far as anyone could tell they’d only circled overhead in the fight. Or had they? The way the Hooligans had controlled fire had been unnatural, and none of the burning arrows sent over the cliff seemed to have caught. Some magic gift of the beasts?

When the dragon finished labouring up to the island and perched on the edge – Vella noticed a second, much smaller rider dismounting as well – the Hooligans watched while the lone ship retrieved the Berserker Chief. Thank the gods, he was still breathing, just unconscious and with a bloody wrap around his leg. The side of his helmet was dented, but only deep enough to make it difficult to remove.

He wouldn’t be happy about his humiliating defeat when he woke, but the tribe had been too recently reforged to lose him so they would gladly suffer the fallout. Shouts for healers rang from the boat as it turned out of the harbour, to join the fleet and sail home.

* * *

“There do we see our fathers, our mothers, our ancestors. May they welcome you in proud and righteous song, hear of your accomplishments this day and roar with you your triumph. May we hear your warcries rise from Odin’s great battlefield, that we may know you shall never know rest, and will be there to greet us at our own final days.”

Five longboats drifted slowly to sea, each carrying a great pyre and the bodies of fallen Hooligans. Seventy one, and three more who had opted for the blade over their injuries. The amber sunset behind them was so fierce it seemed to be trying to light the boats by itself.

Among the desolate Vikings upon one of the lower cliffs of Berk stood Stoick, raising his bow as his dirge concluded. As with everything he owned it was fit for a man of both his status and stature, an enormous black longbow with thick and ornate limbs. He hated the thing, all he ever seemed to use it for was sending off one Viking after another… and yet, he hadn’t had it for the one who had mattered most.

The draw was painful, his wounds had been tightly wrapped but the strain of the enormous weapon tore them open again. It was fitting recompense. His flaming arrow soared straight and true, landing in the pyre of the centre boat where it flickered fitfully, barely visible in the distance. A hundred arrows followed it, the snap of the strings and rushing of flames merging into a single fiery roar, not unlike that of a dragon.

Had he been right to not involve the dragons? Many of the Berserkers had held bolas, though never used them, it was unlikely they could have even got close. Secretly, he was glad the Furies had no fire, he had not had to choose between the lives of his tribe and his commitment to keeping the dragons neutral. Not had to live with the inevitable consequences of either decision.

With the roar fading into the distance, there was only the sound of sniffles over the wind whistling up the cliff. Even as the pyres caught and blazed to life, they were too far away to hear. Just like the warriors upon them.

The sun was still setting when the last of the boats sank into the water and the towering flames winked out, though now the light was warm and comforting. He knew he should be the first to lead the celebration in the Great Hall, but Gobber took one look at him and led it himself with a hearty cheer. Stoick offered his friend silent thanks, and leaned heavily on his bow to watch the sun slowly shrink behind the horizon.

“Um… sir?” The timorous voice startled him, and he turned to see Fishlegs approaching him from along the edge of the cliff.

“Ah… not really a good time, son.”

“I know, I’m sorry… but the Furies wanted to talk to you.”

Stoick blinked and followed his glance, eyes widening at seeing the two black dragons neatly sat several paces behind him, those big green eyes betraying no emotion. “They…?” He couldn’t find the words to finish whatever it was he had started to ask.

“Yeah.” He fidgeted on the spot, stepping from foot to foot and wringing his hangs. “They want to know if they… were the reason the Berserkers attacked us.”

Hiccup’s head twitched, but he seemed to stop mid-motion and nodded instead. Stoick stiffened with a sharp inhale, rocking back on his heels while thousands of prickles danced down his shoulders and back. He suddenly felt very unsteady. _This isn’t possible_ … He already knew it as truth, but this… He hadn’t even come close to comprehending. Now it was all slamming home. _Communication. Intelligence._

Both dragons now looked worried, eyes widening and those little frills drawing back, and it took Stoick a moment to realise how his reaction must seem. He took a few paces away from the cliff – as much for his own safety as anything else – and kneeled in front of them. “That–“ he croaked, failing to make the word properly. After clearing his throat, he tried again, softer this time. “That tribe are a bloodthirsty lot. I won’t lie, Dagur said he was here for _you_ , but he would have come eventually either way. I don’t consider this your fault.” He held out a hand, but the dragons turned their eerie gazes from him to Fishlegs. _Right, language barrier…_

He glanced back to see Fishlegs halfway through some odd dance and making strange sounds, and had to try _very_ hard to keep his face neutral. When the boy had said he could _talk_ to them… Nevermind.

The Furies chirped between themselves, then both stepped forward to press their snouts into Stoick’s hand. Relief washed through him, but then they stepped back and Toothy chirped at Fishlegs.

“…Toothy has another question, sir. He wants to know why you let Dagur live.”

Stoick’s poor mind was still struggling to keep up, and now this was a _specific_ dragon asking him a question. A _good_ question. The prickles washed down his back again in a great wave, stronger this time, and the edges of his vision dimmed. He was glad he was already kneeling. A Chief had to be able to keep up in conversations, not show surprise to strange customs and not cause offence… but this… this was on a whole other branch of Yggdrasil.

“I…” The words wouldn’t come. It was too much. He was exhausted from the battle and arranging the cleanup, tired of death, and as if his failure with his son had not been enough he was now realising the weight of some of his other decisions. The pain in his heart overpowered the wounds in his skin and muscle. Dagur was right. He was _weak_.

He stopped and took a slow breath to steady himself, touched the tough grass under his fingers, smelled the fresh salty air blowing in from the sea, listened to the distant music starting up in the Great Hall. He focused on the present to straighten out his thoughts until he could meet Toothy’s fiercely green eyes. “I don’t kill if I don’t have to. If I’d killed him then another would take his place, eager to prove themselves over the old Chief. We’ve shown we can defeat Dagur, if he’s smart he won’t come back.”

A long conversation of noises and movements carried out between the boy and the dragons, until the green eyes settled on him again and Fishlegs spoke.

“Do you believe it? That he won’t return?”

“…We can hope.” There was far too little certainty in his voice, but Stoick was still reeling. _He was talking to a_ dragon _for Thor’s sake!_ And what’s more, it… _he_ … had struck right at the heart of the problem. “Please, Fi–… Toothy, Hiccup… Now is… not a good time…”

Hiccup warbled and stepped forward again, rearing up to nuzzle his cheek. Stoick put a hand to the Fury’s head, and then with a rush of air he was staring at nothing but grass in the failing light.

“Fishlegs,” he croaked as the boy made to leave. “Are all the dragons…?” He couldn’t say the last word, couldn’t comprehend it.

“…People?” Fishlegs finished, turned sideways to look back at him. “Honestly, if you want my opinion? I don’t even know what a person _is_ anymore.” And with that, he turned and continued up towards the Great Hall.

Stoick stared after him until he was out of sight. With the solitude in the dim light, something cracked inside him, as if he were made of wood and been snapped in half. His mask shattered, and he turned and sat down facing the sea to hide his weakness from his tribe.

* * *

“I still think that risky.”

Dreamer gave Wanderer a sidelong glance as they wheeled above the village, watching the last of the villagers cram through the gates of the Great Hall. “He not can think like that. Unless we say I me, he not know. Also you had question.”

“He not can think,” Wanderer huffed, then yipped when Dreamer swiped at his sensitive wingtip.

“Be nice,” Dreamer growled as they glared at each other. “Nest still here. He good alpha.”

Wanderer held the glare a few moments, then looked down at the village again with his ears drooping. “Yes, he good alpha. I still not like him.”

“Yes. I not like him also. But he my sire.” Wanderer bobbed a little in the air, his eyes back on Dreamer in surprise. “He my sire, I love him, but not like him.” He could almost grin at the bewildered look he was getting.

“Long-Paws very strange,” Wanderer decided. “He sad, you not go to him?”

“This… Long-Paw thing, I think. Not thing I can help him.” The last of the Hooligans disappeared into the hall, leaving the rest of the village quiet and empty, though the noise from that one structure more than made up for it. He scowled, his demanding fledgling body overpowering the events of the day which had yet to really hit him; his memory of it all felt distant and dim. His sire and Gobber were okay, that was all that seemed to stick, and despite his sensitive nose the stench of the aftermath was a distant discomfort. “Much food in there, but very loud. Not think it good idea…”

“Food?”

Dreamer rolled his eyes, his friend was a _little_ too motivated when food was involved. “Yes, like before cold-season. But this thing very loud.”

“What this thing? Sound happy, why happy when nest-kin die?”

“It our thinking. There life after die, it good place for Long-Paws. We sad they leave, then happy for life they had, know they happy after die.” Dreamer didn’t mention that half of Valhalla involved feasting, who knew _what_ effect _that_ would have.

A gentle warble filled the air. “That good thinking. Be happy for life, not sad for die. Yes. Maybe not all Long-Paw things stupid.” His tongue ran across his chops. “How we get food?”

Dreamer rolled his eyes again, then focused on the hall below. “There opening behind, for…” He sighed. “For where food… and he gone.” He was alone in the air, with a dark shape plummeting to the hall below. He tucked his wings and let himself drop, looping below the bridge behind the Great Hall and soaring back up level with the top of the village. It was becoming increasingly dark, but his eyes easily picked out the squared shape cut into the rock, near the back. Not something he’d ever really paid attention to before.

He let the wind carry him over and dropped lithely to the ground, Wanderer eagerly landing next to him a moment later. _Well, back to being cute baby dragons, I guess._ He practiced a few times to the closed door, watching his vision expand as his pupils dilated, feeling his frills flex, his nose twitch. Maybe it was a little demeaning, but effective, and it did help curry favour with the villagers. If it improved relations with dragons, he’d dance naked on the Chief’s table; that he hadn’t worn clothes in well over a year notwithstanding.

Before Wanderer could get too impatient, he jumped up to pull the latch and nosed the door open.

* * *

Even the hard racket of the big kitchen wasn’t enough to drown out the roar from the Great Hall on this night. Every Viking in the village was inside, though the tables were heartbreakingly not nearly as packed as they should be. A lot more crowded than they _could_ be, at least.

Kari felt guilty that it made the job in the kitchens somewhat easier to manage. Not that it was any easier than usual, a proportionate number of cooks and servers were out there in the celebration, but the price for the night off was far too high to envy them. She herself had no relations in the village, having been one of the many strays the village had adopted.

She enjoyed her job in the kitchens. Oh, she knew exactly why she had been ushered here in the first place, for exactly this reason, but it was rewarding. The Hooligans were very friendly and enthusiastic – never in the bad way – and it was difficult not to smile at their jubilance when more food or mead was brought out. The long war had not broken this tribe, only reinforced it.

But, overall, it had to be admitted it was a bit of a boring job. Cut the vegetables, pluck the birds, butcher the meat, the same jobs over and over. Even more mundane due to the focus they needed to maintain to ensure nothing was forgotten and overcooked, or even worse, undercooked. So it was with a tensely hopeful and giddy heart that she watched the kitchen door unlatch and swing open, but nobody enter.

Everyone was in the Hall, but who would raid the _kitchen_ of all places? Full of people brandishing knives, and food was freely available anyway. She had no idea what to expect when she leaned over to see outside.

…

Nothing. Just darkness, the wind, and… four bright green eyes?

Panic surged for a moment and she stumbled back, fleeting thoughts of trolls and demons going through her head before settling on what was actually staring back at her; Berk’s pair of friendly shadows.

She’d seen them flying around the island but never mustered the confidence to put herself forward to meet them. Put on the spot like this, on the other hand, how could she refuse? She set the knife on the bench and sat on her heels, tentatively offering a hand to the Furies. Two dark heads glided forward into the light, and her heart skipped at the little rushes of air between her fingers. A bit late she realised she’d _just_ been filleting fish, but the little tongues fighting over her hand were _painfully_ adorable. It was worth having to wash it.

“Aww, you guys hungry? You want some dinner?” she asked through a big sappy grin. They both perked at that last word, though it was hard to make out more than the four eyes and one little pink tongue still poking out. “Hey Runa…?” she called cryptically behind her. “We got a spare mutton leg or something?”

“Huh? Why?” came the response over the din.

“Just get over here!”

Runa gave an exasperated groan, but Kari had to put her attention back to the Night Fury creeping forward with its nose in the air. “ _Hey_ , I don’t think it’s an actual rule not to have dragons in the kitchen but it’s not happening.” She gave a mock-pout as the dragon looked at her with its big green eyes, more visible now with the light and shorter distance. “Yes you’re _vewy_ cute, but it’s _still not happening_ ,” she babied, waving her slobbery hand in front of it.

“Kari, what are you _doing_ down there and– _what under Thor’s wedding dress!?_ ”

“ _Language!_ ” Kari lightly backhanded the girl’s shin. It’s just… erm… Hiccup? And…”

“Oh! Toothy! _Aww_ , aren’t you the _cutest things_?” She leaned over the bench next to Kari to get a closer look, but then bounced up again. “Mutton leg! On it!” And she was off.

Someone dropped a pot into the dirty pile with a particularly loud _crash_ , and both Furies ducked back with their ears flat. “Looks like I don’t need to keep you out of the kitchen after all,” she teased, holding her hand out again. The smaller one stepped forward this time and nudged its head under her fingers, allowing her to stroke its smooth scales. It felt somewhere between the firm sponginess of leather and the hard finish of iron. A subtle reminder of exactly what these little tykes were, and would grow into. She wiped the slobber from her hand onto it anyway, it didn’t seem to mind.

“Erm…” Runa’s voice came from behind and above her. “So, Olga caught me…” Kari’s heart sank, but then she was being nudged aside so her friend could crouch down next to her, manoeuvring a tray down into the doorway. “She said we can take a break, as long as we’re back to serve the chicken soup.” The tray was laden, there were two herrings, a whole golden roasted chicken, a bowl of fish broth, _and_ the promised mutton leg. There were also two buttered rolls, but Runa took those back and handed one to Kari to munch on.

The two dragons stared wide-eyed at it all, then at the two girls, back and forth. What, were they waiting for permission or something? “Go on,” Kari encouraged through a mouthful, nudging the tray forward.

She was half expecting them to turn into vicious killers on the spot, tearing and shredding at the meal, but if anything they were… _delicate_ in how they ate. The smaller one, Hiccup she supposed, tenderly grabbed the tail of a fish in his teeth – which slid out of his gums with a grating noise before Kari’s eyes – and picked it up off the tray to toss it into his mouth and swallow whole. Toothy similarly picked up the chicken, lay it between them, and held it down in his claws while they picked pieces off.

It was actually a lot more civil than the villagers in the adjacent hall. The thought had her giggling, and she then had to explain to Runa.

With a furtive glance around, Runa reached up to the bench and brought down a second bowl, setting it on the tray. Toothy was busy with the mutton, but Hiccup cocked his head at it, sniffing the water so closely he seemed likely to inhale it. His _adorable_ little pink tongue lapped at it a few times, but Kari was a little slow connecting the dots until he made a stiff face.

“ _Runa!_ You can’t give a baby dragon _mead!_ ” she exclaimed, grabbing for the bowl. Toothy got his nose in it before she snatched it away, then made a little growling noise and firmly whacked Hiccup over the head a few times. “See? Honestly, what were you _thinking_? I should tip this over you.”

“I wanted to see if they liked it,” Runa said passively as the Furies growled and chattered at each other before going back to the food. “Apparently not. Can you imagine a drunk dragon? It would be _hilarious!_ ”

“Yeah, right up until he pukes fish guts everywhere. That would be on _you_.”

“Worth it. How long’s your soup got?”

“Not long…” Kari mumbled as she glanced back at the big pot. “But they’ll be done before then I think. Wow, they’re really making short work of it all.” She stifled a giggle as Toothy made confused faces at the broth between lapping at it, his head tilted and frills standing on end every time he pulled back. “What do dragons do for dessert?”

“You’re asking _me?_ ” Runa scoffed as she watched Hiccup meticulously clean his claws. “What would I know? As far as I know they only eat meat. Certainly not sweetrolls.”

“Oh well. Maybe one of the riders…“ She trailed off as Hiccup looked her directly in the eye, then without looking away, very deliberately reached over and pushed down on Toothy’s head. Which was still in the broth. Both girls fell backwards as a spray of fishy liquid erupted in front of them, staring dumbly as Hiccup was suddenly on his back with Toothy on top of him and snapping at his legs.

Gasping for breath, Kari laughed so hard that no sound came out. Large wings flared and slapped the ground and door as they were thrown around for balance, and their tails quickly swept over the tray and knocked aside what was left of the broth. The strange draconic squeals of laughter and angry growls, both comically high-pitched, kept her going long past the point her chest ached. She couldn’t _breathe_ , her vision was going dark and all she could see were the silhouettes of the writhing tangle in the threshold. She had no idea how Runa was faring next to her.

She had to forcibly try to calm herself when she remembered the soup, now beginning to overcook, but it took a few minutes. She became vaguely aware of Olga trying to get everyone back on task as they all presumably tried to work out what was going on, and thoughts of how she would explain this later almost set her off again. “C… Cuh uh heh, come on Runa…” she stammered as she forced her shaking legs to support her. “Got a soup to serve…”

* * *

In an odd reversal of roles, Dreamer woke up with the rising sun to find Wanderer still asleep. Usually they woke together, occasionally Wanderer had to drag him outside to get moving, but it hadn’t happened this way before.

Although, “woke” wasn’t quite the right word. His dreams were a torturous mincing of the battle, full of blood, fire, and screams, and his sleep was light and restless. With the nights now much shorter, he really hadn’t got much of it either. Perhaps being sleep-addled would keep him from thinking too much, and he had no desire to dream again anyway.

He shook out his wings to take off as he padded to the mouth of the den, but somehow found himself just perched on one of the boulders to watch the light grow through the dense clouds. For once, his mind was completely blank and silent other than the faint echoes of the nightmare.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Wanderer groaned as he roused. He didn’t look happy, frills flat against his neck and jaw stiff. “You regret?” Dreamer purred as he dropped down and strolled over.

“No.” Another breezy groan. “…Maybe.”

They’d returned to the den last night to find Tuffnut’s scent over a pair of small bowls filled with thick cream. As a Viking it had been strange stuff, very rich but also somehow not, best served on something sweet. As a dragon, however, it might as well have been a bowl of pure honey.

He had no idea how Tuffnut had managed to procure the coveted stuff, and wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but it was so rich he hadn’t even been able to get through it. On the other paw, Wanderer had not only finished off his own, but – against advice – Dreamer’s as well.

“I say you not feel good for eat that. You not listen.” He nudged Wanderer’s belly, eliciting a pained groan. “You lie here all light?”

“No, I come…” He dragged himself to his paws and stretched gingerly. “You not can say what good for eat, you drink rotten water. _Stupid_.”

“Not-water make Long-Paws happy. I think. I not drink before, wanted try it. It strange.”

 _“Stupid_ ,” Wanderer repeated. “Not know if rot-water make Long-Paws stupid, or Long-Paws just stupid for drink it.”

“…Both,” Dreamer guessed, his tail swishing across the ground.

Wanderer shook his head, swaying a little afterwards, then peered at Dreamer and gave him a nuzzle. “…You good…? You not slept…”

“I slept enough. Not want more.” As if to spite him, a wave of grogginess weighed heavily on his head and eyes, and he had to blink it away. “I good.”

“Want talk…?”

“No, I… We go to nest. Maybe can help.”

“Dreamer…”

“I good!” he snapped, then shied as Wanderer’s eyes narrowed a little. “Sorry… Want do something, just… not want feel do nothing. Like… in fight.”

“…Yes. We go.”

They flapped into the air, Wanderer much more sluggishly than usual, and soared on the early breeze over to the village. Apart from the burned and scorched remains of the docks, it looked like business as usual. However, while he might not have been able to see the red on the green grass, he could certainly _smell_ it. It washed over him as he drifted in, a strong pungent odour of congealed blood that soaked through everything.

Physically, the smell meant _danger_ and put him on edge. Long-Paws were hunters, their blood – and Dreamer was extremely grateful for this – did not smell good for eating, but where hunter-blood was spilled there was danger.

Intellectually, it was revolting. It was the life blood of _people_ who had died here, _hundreds_ of them for a stupid pointless reason. Not that Vikings saw raiding as pointless, it was glorious to die in battle to a worthy opponent, but that was just another disconnect between Dreamer and his old people.

 _I’m not one of them._ It was truer now than ever.

With Wanderer lagging behind he sought out Fishlegs, tracking him – even through the rank air – from his house up and into the Great Hall where he was eating breakfast. The Hall was blissfully quiet, the few adults sat at the tables were all groaning quietly and nursing their heads, so the predominant sounds were wooden tapping noises, the scraping of bowls, and loud snores from several places around the walls. Dreamer dodged legs on his way over, then hopped up onto the table next to Fishlegs.

“Ohr, hrey Hriccarp,” he said through a mouthful of bread.

Dreamer chirped a greeting while Wanderer climbed up next to him. “You lose kin…?” he asked tentatively.

Fishlegs swallowed and looked down at his plate. “Did I loozs anyone? Not anyone cloes. I got lucky,” he said sombrely. “I don’t know about the others yett, but it’s very unlikely none of us werraffected.”

He hadn’t taken out his notebook to jot new words into, Dreamer noticed. “You good?”

“Eh… Diddent reehlly sleep.”

“Me also.” Something clicked together in Dreamer’s tired brain, and he nearly hit himself in the face. “You talk, bad. Do my talk.”

“What? Why would–“ He cut himself off, eyes going wide, then wheeled around on his seat to look for anyone eavesdropping. _Yes, very subtle Fishlegs, nobody suspects anything now…_ A short growl brought his attention back.

“Sorry,” he said in Dragonese. “I not good your talk.”

“Need talk for get better.”

Fishlegs groaned and slumped. “Yes… Why you here?”

“Want do something… Help.”

“Hmm… Haow do I say ‘loop araund the island to check for sships?’” Fishlegs ‘wondered to himself’ in Norse.

Dreamer waited a few moments, so it didn’t look like he was answering. “Fly around small-land, look for tree-things in sea.”

“Mairn, you guyz need a word ffor ‘ship’,” Fishlegs ‘mused to himself’.

 _Huff_. “You need word for–“ he turned to give Wanderer a lick across the cheek and nuzzle under his chin with a loud purr, then sat back on his haunches and stared deadpan at Fishlegs.

“Pteh, fuh, thass a _wuurd?_ ” he spluttered.

… _Sort of_ … But Dreamer wasn’t going to respond to Norse, so he just kept his face straight.

“…Yeah well whatever it means, I’m not saying it,” Fishlegs mumbled to his plate while picking up some berries.

Dreamer gave a low bark and dropped from the table to the floor, weaving through the tables and legs again to the door. “You can fly?” he asked Wanderer.

“Yes, we fly around small-land?”

“Bad Long-Paws come back maybe, or not leave. Not-My-Female already do I think, but we see better.”

“Yes. We go,” Wanderer said with a groan as they leapt into the air.

“I say you regret, you not listen,” Dreamer chided as they glided west.

“You also drink rot-water. You not joke me? Long-Paws drink that?”

“Yes… Now I thinking… not know why. It stupid. Not can think when drink.”

“Long-Paws stupid.”

Dreamer wanted to argue, but had to admit he hadn’t seen a great deal of evidence to the contrary.

They lazily drifted around sea stacks and over the sparse beaches looking for any lingering boats or rafts, or signs of one being pulled under cover. They drifted the length of a particularly long beach, over the rocky cliff at the end, and down into the next beach – with a start, Dreamer nearly crashed into the sand, landing a little harder than he’d have liked to and stumbling to a halt.

He knew this beach.

It wasn’t big, maybe the length of six or seven longboats and surrounded by steep cliffs that seemed somehow shorter than he remembered. He looked back at the cliff behind him, remembering how he’d slipped and scrabbled up and down a thin treacherous path he could just make out. Silently, in a daze, he walked up the beach and rocky slope to the small, shallow cave.

A tiny trickle of water, no thicker than a pencil, seeped from the rock at the back and ran down one side to the beach outside. How tiny must he have been, to lap at that? He put a claw in it, watching but not really seeing how it interrupted the flow. He saw it through the eyes of a younger version of himself, how it had dried in the drought, and what that meant for the two Nightstrikers who depended on it.

He padded to the centre of the den and pawed at the ground, remembering how many times he and Wanderer had slept in a pile there. It still smelled of them, faintly. This is where Wanderer had given him his name – no, that wasn’t right, Wanderer had named him in the cove, before… this all happened. But it had been here that he’d been able to tell Dreamer both their names.

The memories were blurry and dark. What had happened before then? He hadn’t hatched here… he remembered… walking a great distance…

Outside, Wanderer was watching him with passive curiosity. Wanderer… had been _looking_ for this place. He’d known where he was going, that it was here. He’d spent the winter in Berk, according to Hiccup’s Saga, then they had hatched all the way out here in the spring. Knowing this was here, he’d clearly scoped it out first, but why had they moved? This place was perfect, as long as there was water, _so then why didn’t we start here in the first place?_

_And how do I factor into all this!?_

He slowly padded outside to Wanderer, but no answers were to be had from his piercing eyes. Where there _might_ be answers… He turned slowly to look at the cliff, as if he could see through it and along the path they had taken to get here all those nights ago.

“…I not can stop you,” Wanderer said slowly, his expression suddenly pained and stern, “but… you need learn things first. Then, when you ready, I tell you.”

“What you not want me see?” He flinched at his own accusatory tone. “…Sorry… I…”

“It not that…” his friend whined. Wanderer examined him a moment, then closed his eyes and leaned forward. Dreamer stiffened, a shiver dancing down his spine as he recognised the gesture, one from a long time ago. _I trust you to trust me_.

Dreamer kept his wide eyes fixed on his friend, the best friend he had ever known, someone so much closer and so much more important than a friend. Wanderer had only ever proven, again and again, that he held Dreamer’s wellbeing as his highest priority even if it went against his own nature. Dreamer leaned forward a little – and hesitated. If he so much as glanced aside, he didn’t know what he would find or how much it would explain… but he would know.

Their noses met. It held a finality that snuffed out all desire to follow that path, to search for the answers he craved. He would still get those answers… eventually, when Wanderer deemed him ready. And he could live with that.

They broke contact and opened their eyes, then Wanderer stepped forward to nuzzle and croon while Dreamer looked around. “We should come back here,” he mumbled. “I like here.”

“That because this your first den. It good den, yes. We come back.” He gave himself a shake and stretched out his wings. “But now we need look for Long-Paw-tree-things.”

* * *

A southerly wind blew over the village, and the reaction radiated up the slopes like a wave. Most coughed or cleared their throats, some retched, and a few unfortunate souls lost whatever meagre breakfast they’d forced down.

Astrid was in the second category, dry heaving before she could cover her face with a sleeve, though it was partially because the skinny adolescent she was accompanying had thrown up a vile mix of fruit and gall. She patted him on the back a few times, and waited for him to straighten up. “You okay?”

“Yeah, thanks,” he replied as he wiped his face on a sleeve, though he still looked rather pale.

“Alright. When you’re done with that, go see Gobber, he’s looking for help to sort the metal. It’s the… best job I can give you.” _The least gruesome one, anyway._

He nodded, hefted his sack and trudged off. Astrid hadn’t really been asked to help or anything, Stoick seemed back to his old self in that he seemed to know absolutely everything going on and what to do with everyone, but Astrid had taken it upon herself to do some finer management and make sure everyone had what they needed. Whether that be people, resources, or just someone to talk to. Not only was it good experience but it kept her moving around and able to observe how Stoick did what he did. It also kept her distracted, something she sorely needed right now.

“Astrid!” Ruffnut’s familiar voice called after her, followed by the distinctive light footfalls of her running.

“Hey Ruff, what’s up?”

“Stoick wants to see you.” Astrid went stiff, not able to prevent herself expecting the worst-case scenario; that she’d screwed up, that he wanted her out of the way again, that he was angry she hadn’t _stayed_ out of the way yesterday. “He said to meet him at the cells.”

If her stomach had been sinking before, it had now fallen out and was rolling down the hill. She somehow managed to keep her expression calm despite there no longer being any blood in her face. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just… go now.” She put the grisly sack, full of bloody Berserker garments, back with the others then made her way to the cells. She’d only been there once before, more to show her they were there than anything, and as far as she was aware they hadn’t seen use in years – though come to think of it, Mildew had probably spent some two weeks incarcerated while awaiting judgement. _Most_ Hooligans realised that the tribe was significantly stronger if everyone worked together.

The simple wooden door was built into one of the sheer rock faces halfway up the village, two paces from a sheer drop to the sea below, where nobody had any other reason to be. Stoick wasn’t waiting outside, so as she approached she squeezed one eye shut, an old Viking trick. When she opened the door and stepped into the inky cave, she re-opened her eye – pre-adjusted to the darkness – and strode confidently down the steps in the low light.

Stoick and Spitelout were waiting for her at the end, lit by a lantern hung on the wall, and she tried with all her might to believe this wasn’t about her.

“Astrid, thanks for coming,” Stoick rumbled, turning to the locked cell next to him, and tentative relief flooded through her. She was still quite unprepared when she reached the cell to find a young girl, about her own age, standing inside. She had long dark hair, tangled and matted, her angled face was almost gaunt and prominently featured wide eyes that darted fearfully between the three of them. She was dressed in a simple course tunic that was somewhat dirty and crusty, like the rest of her, and her hands were crossed over her chest where they trembled.

“Wha– who are you!?” Astrid blurted out. She certainly wasn’t a Hooligan, there were only the four other teens Astrid’s age on Berk.

“Tha’s wha’ we’re _tryin’_ ter find out,” Spitelout grumbled, his arms folded, but said no more when Stoick calmly raised a hand with a nod.

“Aye, she appeared yesterday after the battle, but we were a bit busy at the time. Did you get the key?” _What? What key!?_ He sighed. “Nevermind, let’s go get it.” Astrid stood in the door of another cell to allow him to pass, then followed him back outside.

He took two paces outside, aside the door, then pulled a key out of a pocket and handed it to her. She just stared at it in her hand, uncomprehending. “Uhh…”

“We’ve got her story, and we’re… _fairly_ happy with it. Enough to release her and have her help, preferably in the kitchen. But she’ll trust you more than she trusts us, so I want you to get to know her, get your own story out of her, then come see me and we’ll compare. A day, a week, however long it takes, but come to me immediately if there’s anything suspicious.”

The pieces clicked together in Astrid’s mind. Her coming to the cell first, the little show, all to help create an image for this girl to chew over, either to help put an innocent girl at ease or give a suspicious liar something to chew on.

“Sir,” she started, forcing herself to look up into his eye. “Why didn’t… Why are you trusting me with this, but not with…?”

He sighed and nodded to Spitelout, who shrugged and sauntered off. “This isn’t how I wanted to have this conversation, but… we’re here now.

“ _Everyone_ in the tribe must trust the Chief implicitly. We have a council of elders to keep us in check, but I can’t run to them every time I make a decision. That means everyone has to trust _me_ , not only that I will be fair and act in the tribe’s interests, but to follow me into those decisions without question.

“That means you too. I know you just want to understand, and you will, but you need to trust that I am acting with the tribe’s best interests at heart. You need to understand both sides of that blade, so that you can better decide who to tell what. It’s far too easy to tell people everything, or nothing.”

Astrid lowered her eyes to his knees. “And when you were telling me everything… I expected you to _keep_ telling me everything…”

“Aye. You understand.” The enormous weight of his hand rested on her shoulder. “I will tell you everything you need to know, but there _will_ be things I will not tell you, things you need to learn yourself. That is part of being a Chief, and it is all for the good of the tribe. That _includes_ ensuring it has a capable successor.”

She nodded numbly, head bowed as her shame heated her cheeks. “Thank you, sir. But, if I may ask one more question… just so I understand. Why aren’t we using the dragons? I’m sure we could have found _some_ safe way to use them, dropping rocks or something…”

“Because, if we fight like every other tribe, with hammer and blade, they will remain wary of us as we do of them. If we fight with dragons they will _fear_ us, and seek to alleviate that fear. They are unhappy with your dragons as it is.”

Tension flared in Astrid’s chest and stiffened her body as she realised the repercussions of her fantasies. Not just the Berserkers, but possibly a united Archipelago converging on Berk. From their perspective, it would be the Dragon War all over again, but this time everyone would know _exactly_ where to find the nest…

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she gasped, eyes burning and threatening tears. “You, you’re in control of _everything_ , always two steps ahead of everyone, how–…”

The hand on her shoulder squeezed. “You’ll get there, and you won’t be alone. For one, I intend to _retire_.” She met his eyes again. “Just focus on our new guest for now. One step at a time, and before you know, you’ll be ready. Ready enough, anyway.” He chuckled. “Some things you learn on the job.”

She refused to shed tears as she looked up at him, but they welled in her eyes regardless. “Why me? Why are you so sure…?”

His eyes seemed to twinkle as he gave her a soft smile. “Because you know to ask these questions.” With that, he turned and strode away.

Astrid stared after him. _Oh mum… Why did you have to leave me now… I really need your guidance…_

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and ducked back inside, _o_ _ne step at a time, I can do this._ “Hey,” she said a little shakily as she approached the prisoner, then took a slow discrete breath to steady herself. “Sorry about that. And… all this. I’m Astrid, I’ve been… I guess I’ve been asked to sort of induct you into the village. Everyone else is kind of busy what with… erm…” She realised, as she fumbled with the lock, that she had no idea how much this girl knew.

“…Yeah. I, er, saw.” There was silence until the rusty lock clicked and the door swung open with a grating squeal, but she did lower her hands to her midsection where she wrung them. “It’s… nice to meet you, Astrid. I’m Heather.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo it was pretty obvious the last chapter was somewhat out of my expertise, eh? xP Thank you to everyone who chipped in with helpful suggestions, it can only improve things going forward! And again to Aelan for allowing me to bounce things off him.
> 
> Chapter titles are interesting things aren't they? I come up with them before posting, sometimes a few days earlier, but occasionally I look back and wonder how I keep accidentally writing these themes into the chapters xP


	11. Motive

“Well there’s really nothing better to do than to get started. New inductions to the tribe tend to go to the kitchen, it’s simple work but rewarding, so I’m thinking we’ll head there first.” Astrid kept a wary ear on the footsteps behind her, light and sure, but it only served to tell her that Heather was barefoot. “Ah… actually, maybe we better stop by and get you some shoes first.”

They emerged into the overcast daylight, the gods granting them an acceptable middle-ground between washing away the smell or baking it in the sun. She offered Heather a hand to steady her for the last few steps – the sheer drop just to their side could be daunting – and quickly revised her plan again as she got a better look at the girl. “Shoes, then the bath house, then a hot meal, and _then_ we can show you around.” It would be better to keep her busy, keep her from thinking. Not only would it make it harder to keep any lies straight but it was also a small mercy; exhausting her first would allow her to rest more easily the first few nights.

“Okay… Thank you,” the thin girl acknowledged quietly. Her eyes furtively scanned the village as they ascended, and her hands wrung more tightly at the bustle around them.

“So, how’d you end up here, during all… this?” Astrid asked as they walked, trying to sound casual and curious. It helped that she really was _dying_ to know.

“I… They attacked our boat on the way past, held me captive on one of their ships. When it caught fire I escaped and got swept away, but managed to swim to a beach.” Astrid nodded, there was a current that swept around the main island, on rare occasions a sheep would fall off a cliff and usually be found on a beach not far away. Everyone was taught about it, just in case they or someone else took a bad fall and were lucky enough to survive it. “Then I made my way here, and… here I am.”

Astrid clamped down on the dozen questions she had, trying to quell her eagerness to poke holes. She had been given the time to be subtle. They approached the leatherworker’s, the counter manned by a young apprentice Astrid didn’t recognise, and in moments Heather’s unsettled hands were occupied with carrying a sturdy pair of shoes with a couple pairs of fresh socks wedged inside.

“Great! Bath house is a little ways up, you can get some clean clothes there too.”

“You… don’t need to pay for these?” Heather asked uncertainly.

“Huh? Pay? Oh right, some places do that. Nah, everyone just chips in and takes what they need. It’s a lot easier this way, and everyone–… _nearly_ everyone learns pretty quickly that you don’t live long without trust and consideration. ‘A hungry neighbour can’t protect your back.’”

A shadow flashed in the corner of her eye, and she abruptly remembered something she should probably explain sooner rather than later. “So, what’s your attitude towards dragons?”

Heather blinked and gave her head a little shake, as if to clear it. “Dragons? My village got the odd raid, but we never kept much to attract them. Are they a problem here?”

“A problem? No,” Astrid laughed. “You could say we’ve made our peace with them. Just don’t freak out, okay?” She whistled, a short high note, not knowing why it would work but knowing it would, then grinned as two small curious faces peeked out from under a nearby wagon. “Heeey little guys, what’cha been up to today?” She beckoned, crouched low, and they approached cautiously with noses twitching.

Hiccup chirped and relaxed, his eyes dilating. Toothy inspected Heather a little closer, about a pace away, before relaxing himself. Good, that ruled out any hidden weapons, though the bath would have done that anyway. Astrid couldn’t help slipping her fingers between Toothy’s frills to give him a scratch, grinning at his little happy noises.

“W-w-what… are th-they…?” Heather stammered, taking small steps back.

“Dragons,” Astrid supplied cheerfully. She turned back to watch for a reaction. “Night Furies.”

Confusion and surprise crossed her face. Understandable. “Night Furies…?” She shakily knelt to the ground and inched forward, going still as Hiccup showed renewed interest in her. “They’re so…”

“…Innocent? Sweet? _Adorable?_ ” Astrid offered, giving Toothy both her hands and melting as his purrs vibrated through her wrists.

“Small.”

“…Huh. I guess, but they’re still young. _Aren’t you? Yesh you are, yesh you’re adorwabwe._ ” Toothy crooned at her, then snapped his head away with a growl when Hiccup nipped his tail. He took off after him at a second challenge and they ran circles around the wide path, nipping and chasing each other.

“They’re… certainly playful,” Heather said, finding some of her composure.

“Yeah, Hiccup’s always playful around new people.” Astrid leaned in with a conspiratory whisper, “I think he likes to show off.” Heather giggled. “Hey, maybe they can take a bath with us? They’ll probably like warm water.” Neither of them could help laughing – Heather a little nervously – as Hiccup tripped over his own feet and slid to a halt on his face. Credit to him, he just picked himself back up and resumed his chase with renewed vigour. “Oh relax Heather, I’m joking,” she teased, though didn’t totally discount the idea for herself. She was curious, it might be fun.

Though, Heather seemed to be taking it all pretty well. She was watching them attentively, but didn’t seem overly frightened. Huh. How do people normally react to this stuff? Johann had apparently not fared well, but he’d previously had some bad experiences. It sounded like wherever Heather was from wasn’t troubled all that much by dragons, maybe this was normal. They didn’t really have a lot to go on.

“We should get a move on though. I’ve got a few friends who’ll want to meet you and then we won’t get _anywhere_.”

* * *

Dreamer watched the newcomer depart with his eyes narrowed at her back. Astrid had called her Heather, definitely not a Hooligan name, and he would remember a girl his age with long dark hair.

_So why did she seem familiar?_

He couldn’t place her, but something about her was tugging at his mind, some memory that refused to surface. For that matter, where had she even come from? And now, of all times? He growled frustratedly at the questions he had no means to get answers to, other than hope Fishlegs would know.

Wanderer gave him an enquiring warble behind him. “Hurt?”

Dreamer was yanked from his thoughts by a lick across where he’d been nipped earlier on his tail fin, a jolt of sensation that lanced up his tail and made him jump with a small yip. He glared back with a huff at Wanderer, who just looked pleased with himself. “No. That Long-Paw strange, like I see her before, but she not from nest.”

“I not know her. Maybe when you Long-Paw?”

“Maybe…” Dreamer shook his head. “It not matter. Maybe I remember later. We go find Fish-Legs.”

He was not difficult to locate, Meatlug’s wingbeats could be heard from across the village as she made trips up and down the cliffs to what used to be the docks. They waited for them to haul up their load of various loot – cloths, weapons, and scrap iron mostly – collected in a salvaged sail hanging from Meatlug’s claws. It lowered to the ground and spilled its contents, quickly set on by a dozen villagers to sort through.

“Tell him about new female if he do good,” Dreamer suggested, and Wanderer shook an _affirmative_ as he took the lead. They had agreed a couple of weeks ago, after the incriminating book had been destroyed, that Wanderer would handle most of the talking now. On top of appearances it would also be better for Fishlegs to have no way to cheat the communication, and truthfully it was a relief for Dreamer to not _need_ to deal with him.

This time there didn’t seem to be any real communication issues, and by Fishlegs’ expression he got the bonus. Dreamer grinned, knowing he’d blurt out something about the Furies telling him which would both improve Heather’s opinion of dragons and give Fishlegs a good first impression.

“We look for Long-Paw claws in grass,” Wanderer said as he trotted back, and Dreamer’s grin turned into a grimace. Arrowheads, weapon shards and discarded daggers would pose a risk to foot and hoof, but it would mean sniffing out iron through the stench of day-old blood. He sighed, supposing there was no reason he should be spared the gruesome jobs, and they were a perfect fit for it. Didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.

The smell, he mused to himself as he crossed the sloped field for the fifth time, was not the worst part. He pulled his paw free of the ground with a wet squelch and a scowl, feeling the muck ooze between his claws. At least it was just an uncommitted dark colour that he generally associated with brown, and not the dark red he knew it must be. He could pretend. The whole field smelled of blood, but it was simple enough to pick out other smells so he could avoid stepping in… anything worse, so there was also that.

He felt out the edges of the puddle and skirted around it to the hard metallic smell on the other side, an arrowhead lodged into the ground and snapped off. He tried not to wonder if it was responsible for the wet patch. He easily dug it from the hard ground with his claws – noting they were getting a bit long – and half-hopped-half-flapped up to the small pile that was accruing at the top of the field.

Not for the first time, he had to stop himself from automatically trying to clean his paws. He had no desire to _ever_ know that taste, and he had to admit to himself that part of it was a fear he _wouldn’t_ find it revolting, just like the smell. Anyway, he was only going back out there, there was no point in cleaning them now. Gliding back down to where he’d left off, he resumed the search.

Something sharp jabbed into the soft pad of his paw, causing him to flinch back, and he teased a shard of wood out of the hard ground. Probably a piece of shield, the splinters would soften and rot before long. He lay it down flat and continued on, nose twitching.

Was it some instinct he no longer possessed that made gore revolting? Or was he just used to blood from having eaten so much raw meat? Though there were the other smells as well, just as unpleasant, and that wasn’t triggering a reaction either. It still stank, but he could ignore it. Maybe tolerance just came with a sensitive nose.

He had to chuckle at how ridiculous he was being, practically chastising himself for not throwing up at the scene. Every Viking on Berk was probably wishing for exactly what he had. Hmm, did that mean he didn’t have to feel guilty about it?

 _Guilty_. The realisation slammed into him like a physical force, pressing the air from his chest and halting his advance. That was what he felt, that was all he’d felt since his ‘rude awakening’ with Fishlegs, but why? _Because he was_ _actually enjoying being a dragon_. He _didn’t_ want his miserable human life back, but Fishlegs expected him to and he felt he needed to meet that expectation. The same thing he’d done all his human life.

He gave his wings a single, defiant shake. Well, he _liked_ being a dragon, and he would _continue_ liking it. Being free of expectations, that all he needed to survive was his own body, the ability to _fly_.

The anxiety welled in his chest at the declaration, but he growled at it. Now that he knew what he was up against, could recognise it for what it was, he could fight back and separate it from himself. Maybe some part of him already realised this, and he thought proudly back to his little joke on Fishlegs earlier that morning.

A myriad of wild and occasionally macabre ideas flew through his head, taking his declaration of freedom and running with it, but he stamped them out; he wasn’t _abandoning_ his humanity. He only pondered on taking advantage of his anonymity and joining the girls in a bath like Astrid had suggested, but more than anything he only held intellectual curiosity of what he might one day have had.

…Wait… Did that make it okay?

…

He was too sleep-deprived to be thinking about his moral compass today. He shook his head and resumed his search.

A pawful of slender fragments of something that had shattered were the last things he found before meeting Wanderer in the middle, the pile of dirty iron and steel about big enough to fill a bucket. Dreamer shuddered to think about children playing there, rolling on the grass, sheep munching away unawares. He wasn’t even confident enough to say it was safe, but it was certainly saf _er_.

They did a quick loop of the field just to be sure, finding nothing, and returned to the dry ground at the foot of the village.

Wanderer, frills stiff against his neck, tried to wipe his paws on the grass as Dreamer was doing. Neither of them had any success. “We fly to old den? Swim? We small fledglings, need much rest,” Dreamer offered impishly, and his friend perked up and gave an approving croon.

They didn’t bother going back to Fishlegs to report, just leapt into the air and soared over to the cove. There were no games on the way, no distractions, they were both just looking forward to being clean and wasted no time in diving straight into the cold lake, involuntarily sucking in a breath and flattening their ears as the water rushed up to meet them.

Dreamer’s insulated hide masked the expected shock from the change in temperature, though the pads of his paws, fins, and wing-membranes ached from it. For a moment he just let himself hang still in the water, listening to the muffled world and the hum of his own pulse, but then the air in his lungs floated him back to the surface.

Wanderer was nowhere to be seen, so he refreshed his breath and dove again, tucking his wings and legs in tightly and weaving up and down to propel himself. The water glided over his smooth scales, there was a little tug on the folds of his wings but his flared tail fins gave him more than enough power to surge forward. It wasn’t something they did often, at least since nesting in the village, but the motions still came naturally.

He noticed a cloud of sediment rising from the bottom to be slowly carried away by the faint current, and Wanderer shot out of it before he had time to worry. In a moment he was back at the bottom of the lake, kicking up another murky cloud.

Peculiar. Dreamer settled on idling around while picking at the muck on his paws, meticulously working between his claws and where they met his scales. It was softer in the water and came away easily, though he vividly remembered the feel of it. Maybe Wanderer was onto something. He swam down and dug his claws into the bottom, feeling the sandy mud scour them clean. Frills perking up – his ears remained flat to keep the water out – he kicked up his own murky cloud rubbing his paws, and then the rest of him, against the lakebed.

Lungs finally starting to ache for air, he gave himself a shake to free any loose dirt and then rocketed up to the surface. He tried to clear it, but couldn’t quite get his waterlogged wings out in time and dropped back into the water.

Wanderer surfaced a moment later, gasping and heaving for breath as he floated. Silly dragon was still testing the limits of how long he could stay under. Dreamer idly cruised circles around him until the panting slowed, then surged under the surface. He wrapped his forelegs around Wanderer’s hindquarters and gave a great push with his tail, dragging them both down into the lake.

He quickly let go and kicked off, delighting again in feeling the water glide over his body. A glance back showed Wanderer in pursuit, eyes focused. With a twist and a firm push of his tail, Dreamer spun around and streaked underneath him, silently giggling as the grapple slid easily off his flanks.

Dreamer freely admit he was proud of his speed and nimbleness, he felt it suited him better given his human body had also been thin and wiry. Maybe if someone had have helped him, worked on his strengths instead of trying to hammer out his weaknesses, he would have found something that worked for him. Maybe one day he would have worked out who he was on his own.

Well, it was all senseless to ponder now, and only served to set a scowl on his face. Lungs crying for air again, he launched himself back at the surface and managed a flap for a little height, but his wingtips slapped the surface of the water and pulled him back down.

Before he could dive down again, Wanderer surfaced a body-length away. He too launched himself from the water, throwing out his wings and shedding a spray in a great arc around him. A second layer of spray flew out as his wings pushed down, lifting him clear of the water and into a hover.

Dreamer gaped, even despite the smirk he got back. Tiny droplets pittered down around them, and the water streaming down Wanderer’s gleaming scales and trickling off his dangling tail gave him an almost ethereal quality. Dreamer shook himself and set his jaw, then ducked under and pushed his way back down to the lakebed.

He’d seen part of the trick – Wanderer was big on teaching by example with little explanation, much like Gobber come to think of it – and as he surged up he pushed his furled wings forwards. It created a little more drag but he fought through it, and gave his tail a final heave to push him from the water.

His wing-elbows straightened as they hit air, stretching his leathery appendages out slightly quicker than before. This time when he flapped down, it was enough to push him completely clear of the water and allow him a second flap, a third, a fourth – an easy hover. _YES!_

Wanderer’s eyes were wide, his frills and ears standing out in _awe_. With a pang, Dreamer realised this was probably the first time he’d ever seen another manage it, at least for a very long time. He’d been alone in the nest. _Alone_.

With a warble, he glided over to the dry bank where he dropped down and shook off the excess water, Wanderer doing the same next to him.

“Dreamer, you good?” came a tentative enquiry.

“That… hard explain. But yes. Why?”

“You look… _angry_.” Dreamer was a little startled by the word, and took him a moment to even realise it _was_ a word and not Wanderer just baring his teeth and looking, well, angry.

He considered the observation while the gentle breeze slowly dried his scales. “…Yes. I angry at me. I think something this light, now know why I feel bad…” Wanderer encouraged him on with a slight forward nod. “It because I… sorry for want be Nightstriker.” Expressions flashed over his friend before he could elaborate; surprise, hurt, sadness, but then thinking and confusion. “I _want_ be Nightstriker, but know Long-Paws want me be Long-Paw. I angry for let that make me feel bad.” He scowled internally at the mincing of words, but it should have got his point across.

“Angry not good also… but better than sorry. You still have much bad Long-Paw thinking. One night we leave this nest, live a sky-ice-cycle like Nightstrikers. Maybe that help you think good.”

Dreamer perked up. “We can go to your old nest? I think that before. Want know about…” he scowled at the lack of word for ‘dragon’, “…scale-wing-hunters.” Close enough for now. Maybe he should invent a word for them.

Wanderer’s ears went up. “You want see my old nest?” Dreamer chuffed an _affirmative_. “…You need know how fight, for nest there.”

 _Oh_ … He knew it was something he _should_ learn, but felt horrible about it. He enjoyed their tussles, but the moment the fight started even looking serious his stomach turned and just wanted it over. He hadn’t even realised he was doing it until Wanderer had told him he needed to learn.

“I… I try. Not yet, but I try, if you teach me.” It was only a precaution anyway, right? Not like they’d have to fight their way into the nest, he wouldn’t really want to live there for any length of time if that was the case.

“We still fledglings, need grow. But should start soon.”

“Yes…” First, he needed to stop feeling sorry for himself about everything. _And on that wind…_ He sized up Wanderer, reading his stance, his position, how those big green eyes narrowed in suspicion. Dreamer didn’t give him a chance to think, darting to the side and lunging.

The Nightstriker was just fast enough to leap out of the way, but Dreamer bounded off the ground and latched onto his soggy hindquarters, dragging him down. He pulled forward to touch his teeth to his friend’s neck, and had to feel proud with his fastest win ever. Even if Wanderer wasn’t trying, he could take the achievement.

And it was an important win. He had two forces at war inside him, and he needed to show himself which side he was on. Clamping down on his stupid guilt of enjoying his new life, he began to address the much more deserved guilt of neglecting his friend by running his tongue between the wings pinned beneath him.

It was… more difficult than he’d thought it would be. He couldn’t just let himself do it like with hunting, but his anxiety gradually became less crippling as he lost himself in the task. Particularly with the meticulous little bits, delicately working his claws and tongue around Wanderer’s wing joints, around his back spines, and gently between his frills. Being dead tired helped somewhat as well. He ignored the baseless paranoia that someone was watching and judging, given the only one who even could judge him was Fishlegs and Dreamer didn’t really care for his opinion right now.

He wheezed – barely preventing it from becoming a whine – when he rolled Wanderer over. The scales were dull and the leather between them flaking, triggering recollections of their talk on the beach of the volcano nest. Dreamer was the _only one_ he would allow near his throat, the most vulnerable part of him but also the most difficult to reach or see. Had it even been this bad before the fight with the queen? He couldn’t remember, at the time he’d possessed very different vision and hadn’t known what to look for.

It turned the internal conflict in a wild direction. The guilt of neglect flared dramatically, but there was a measure of pride and elation at being the only one trusted this much by someone. Especially by such a creature as a Night F–… a _Nightstriker_.

He carried on until his aching mouth could do no more, and stepped back to clean his own face. There were a lot of fiddly little nooks to reach, too many to do in a single sitting, but that was fine. Dreamer promised himself this would become a more regular thing again.

Wanderer was a _lot_ more relaxed, and only now did Dreamer see how tense he’d been. It was understandable, the battle had been stressful for everyone, and he himself had been a source of stress for the poor dragon as well. It was good he was able to do this now, and it should only get easier if previous experience was anything to go by. He _would_ find his balance again.

For now… he felt tired enough to fall asleep on his paws. Without the hype of his inner conflict, his eyes kept trying to drift shut and he was finding it difficult to remain steady. _Yeah, I think I’m tired enough not to care_ … He nudged his way in between the bigger dragon’s outstretched paws, nuzzling into his warm chest. As a black wing absently draped over him a lazy thought drifted through his mind, another piece of the puzzle – he was back in his safe place. And with that, he realised Wanderer was back in his safe place too. He clung to the thought, even allowing a gentle and happy whine as he snuggled in closer, protected from all the bad thoughts by the warm embrace and lulled to sleep by the familiar purr.

* * *

“So she can talk as well?” The question was asked with an enthusiasm Fishlegs was not accustomed to outside of his own family, and even more unusual given the subject.

He was more than happy to oblige such a healthy thirst for knowledge. “Of course! But not nearly as well or as much as the Furies. Or quite as much as the Nadders. Huh, you know I’m not actually sure about Hookfang… He might just be grumpy.”

It was a lovely day, the sun shining through a light misting of rain that helped to dampen the stench of the days-old battle, though what they really needed was a torrential downpour. Hopefully this summer wouldn’t be as dry as last year.

Heather ducked her way around Meatlug, offering scratches and strokes while she appreciated the finer advantages of a Gronckle. “Her skin is so hard… almost like rocks. It feels like it would deflect arrows.”

“Yeah, except for her underside. Gronckles were a real problem in raids. It’s also really hard to tie their wings up with a bola, takes a lot of practice and luck to hit the right spot. And she’s _super_ strong, the strongest lifting power of any dragon, plus endurance is off the scale.”

“Wow,” she whispered airily. “And she can _talk?_ ”

“Perhaps I should demonstrate,” Fishlegs said primly, drawing himself up. _You, good, question_ , he asked. The motions were simple, and the word for ‘good’ was a high hum that tailed up at the end, nothing too embarrassing with Heather’s big green eyes on him.

 _Yes. Belly, hurt, small,_ she replied.

“Aww, got a bit of a belly ache?” he asked aloud for Heather’s sake while he rubbed her jaw. Wait… _You, eat, bad, rock, again, question_. Meatlug’s expression was answer enough. “Meatlug, you _know_ the course granite from that beach gives you gas, why do you do this to yourself?” he chided light-heartedly.

Heather burst out laughing, a light chiming that seemed to sing to him. “You two are _adorable!_ But wow, that’s incredible Fishlegs, who knew they were so intelligent?”

“Oh this is nothing, you should see the Furies, they’re–“ he abruptly cut himself off, remembering _exactly_ how intelligent the Furies were. Had he really forgotten for a moment? “…You know what? If you’re staying then you should meet them properly and see for yourself. They’re really friendly.”

Astrid chose this moment to stretch noisily and butt in. “Maybe later. We should… probably get Snotlout out of the way. I don’t want him cornering you while I’m not there. Oh don’t worry he won’t go too far, he’s just… _yurgh_.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, thank you Astrid,” Heather replied confidently.

As if saying his name summoned the draugr himself, Snotlout made a blustery landing on Hookfang next to the group. “Did I hear my name, my ears are burning, I knew you couldn’t resist me for long, hey there.” He leaned out a little, balancing precariously on the saddle with one of his dumb grins. “I’m Snotlout.” It might have been more impressive timing if he didn’t do it for almost every entrance where Astrid was involved.

“Snotlout, this is Heather. _Play nice,_ ” Astrid warned icily, but for once she went completely ignored.

“Hello Snotlout, it’s nice to meet you. That’s a very impressive dragon you’re riding, a Monstrous Nightmare right?” As with Meatlug, Heather did not approach Hookfang, though a furtive glance across at her showed her soaking in the big dragon’s features.

“Sure is, only the best, most powerful dragon on Berk. He single-handedly took out half the Berserker invaders you know, and he’s _miiiine_.” He jerked his thumbs towards himself, flashing his typical grin, so he was unprepared and fell out of the saddle when Hookfang jerked his head to side.

“You mean your dad harvested his spit without you knowing, and used _it_ to stave off the invasion,” Astrid remarked flatly.

“That’s still impressive,” Heather said peaceably while Snotlout hurriedly brushed himself off, “without you and Hookfang here Berk wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“Yeah, that’s right…” Snotlout said as if he’d just realised it himself. “So anyway, I’m thinking you, me, candlelit dinner under the stars, tonight,” he pranced towards Heather as he spoke, but she somehow slipped around him towards Hookfang.

“He’s a very impressive dragon, may I…?”

Snotlout scowled at Hookfang. “Er, no, I wouldn’t. He bites. A _lot_. Also sets everything on fire, _including himself_.” Hookfang gave his rider an apathetic look, then prowled forward to put his head under Heather’s hands with a contented hiss.

“Well I think he’s _very_ friendly,” she said as she rubbed his snout and cheeks, and Fishlegs thought he saw the dragon shoot Snotlout a smug smile. Yeah, Snotlout was fuming, definitely his dragon one-upping him again.

Snotlout tried to wedge himself between Heather and Hookfang, but she stepped further long to inspect the saddle while Hookfang put his neck between the two teens. Not put off, Snotlout leaned over the saddle. “My dad’s kind of a big deal around here, I could get us some mead, the good stuff, so meet me at sunset at–“

“Oooh, sorry Snotlout,” Heather cut him off with an apologetic grimace, “I’ve got to be in the kitchens serving dinner tonight. But if you feel up for it now, we could go for a quick flight…?”

“Up for it? Hah! I could fly all day.” Hookfang huffed at him. “Alright, alright, _we_ could fly all day.” He smoothly climbed into the saddle and helped Heather up, then – blissfully – his bragging faded into the distance and left a peaceful silence behind.

Fishlegs put his finger on what had been bugging him about the whole encounter. “Say Astrid, normally you don’t need much of a reason to put Snotlout in his place. Why’d you let him walk all over Heather like that?”

“He didn’t walk all over her,” she replied, distracted.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

She blinked and looked at him blankly for a few moments. “Well, if she’s going to live here she needs to be able to handle herself. I just wanted to make sure she could do that.” She resumed watching them drift lazily through the sky.

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair enough. Yeesh, he’s probably talking her ear off up there, but at least he can’t try anything.”

“I don’t really think he would, not really.”

“Still, better safe than sorry.”

Astrid looked over her nose at him. “You seem pretty protective of her.”

Feeling heat rise in his cheeks, Fishlegs fumbled out an answer. “Uh, well, um, yeah, she’s smart, and, er, inquisitive, and she really likes dragons. She’s nice.”

“Hm.”

* * *

Asger stroked his beard while he considered the boy stood before the Council. He wasn’t overly fond of the mottled hair growing haphazardly through the scars on his face, but it was expected of him at his status of Elder. Few Berserkers lived long enough to claim the title, so those who did were considered exceptionally strong and wise, enough so that they weren’t concerned about an opponent grabbing it in a fight.

“ _I don’t care_ what you say! I’m going back there, and I’m _razing it to the ground!_ ” Dagur spat. The rage on his face was clear even in the low light from two fires crackling at either side of the room that cast eerie shadows over him.

“You and what army?” one of the woman elders intoned callously. “Half our fighters went on the last raid, and well under half of those came back. Would you take every man next time? And what if _none_ of them come back?”

“Berk got lucky. It _won’t_ happen again,” the boy growled.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” came a haughty male voice with inflections placing him from one of the northern villages. “Berk is a stronghold, and they were prepared. You were outclassed.”

Asger was bored of this already. “This is pointless. The losses we have suffered already outweigh any reward Berk could possibly offer, _including_ your Night Furies. On top of losing most of your army, your opponent knocked you out.” A murmur of agreement met the damning statement, there was no dishonour in dying to a worthy opponent but there had to be a significant difference in ability to be knocked out when going for the kill. “You’ll not have my support.”

A wave of agreement swept the dim room, and Asger wondered if Dagur was capable of physically exploding. “ _I put this tribe back together!_ ” he screeched. “You would still be pathetic remnants of a once-great people scattered over this stupid island if it wasn’t for me!”

“Yes, Dagur, and we have not forgotten that,” the first woman chimed in icily, “why do you think we supported you in the first place for little more than glory? What you do with your guard is up to you, but you’ll not have an army”

Dagur was suddenly no longer listening, repeating something under his breath. “What am I _doing?_ ” he asked suddenly, uncharacteristically lucid but apparently not talking to anyone in particular. “I’ll return us to our _former glory_ , and I’ll do it _by myself_. I see now I have to do EVERYTHING myself.” Grumbling under his breath again, he turned and stalked towards the door.

“Remember your duties,” another woman called after him. “As Chief you must remain here at least two weeks in any eight. I advise spending the time to _plan_ your next venture, whatever crazy idea you’ve got in your head.”

“Fine,” he growled before disappearing outside.

* * *

Wanderer woke to a restless Dreamer twitching and fidgeting against him, tucked tightly together as they were for warmth as the angry sky outside their den thundered and deluged. There were even a few chunks of ice smashing against the ground and throwing occasional fragments into the den.

He gave a quiet sympathetic sigh, then gently licked Dreamer across the ear. The sensation was pleasant enough but the amplified squelching noise that accompanied it jolted Dreamer awake.

“…I wish you not do that…” the little Nightstriker mumbled, readjusting himself more consciously to huddle in closer.

“I stop when you sleep good,” Wanderer replied, nuzzling in between Dreamer’s top frills to savour his crisp scent in the clean air.

 _Huff_. “I not can fix that.”

“Tell me.”

A long sigh blew warmly down Wanderer’s front. “I dream Long-Paws die. Like in fight. But I happy, I…” He whined as the sky gave a low rumble. “I do bad.” Not really sure what to say, Wanderer just gave a comforting and sympathetic croon, tightening his embrace a little. “I wake, I… not feel bad. Many Long-Paws die in fight, I feel… nothing. I not can think, not can…” A low growl was soaked up by all the water outside. “I not know words.”

“I know what mean,” Wanderer comforted him. “You have much bad Long-Paw thinking. Yes, nest-kin die, bad, but you say they in good place now, not should feel bad. But that not why you not feel bad.” He poked the top of Dreamer’s head with a claw. “You have fledgling mind. Still need much growing.” He was only going off vague half-explanations he’d barely paid attention to, but the more he spoke the more it made sense. “Thinking some things, hard, mind not big enough for thinking big things. Still have memories, know die is bad, but not can understand.”

Dreamer groaned. “That good if know sooner…”

“I sorry… This strange. You fledgling but not. I not know what I should tell you.” Wanderer nuzzled him, delighting in the soft frills brushing over his face, and purred _sleep_. Before long Dreamer’s breathing evened out and slowed, but Wanderer found he wasn’t tired. Instead he just listened to the rain and the rolling growls of the storm, and basked in the presence of another Nightstriker. It was still novel, even after a whole cycle.

The circumstances were unusual, perhaps, but it was like a dream. He ached with the happiness of companionship, even more in knowing the connection he had with Dreamer went deeper than his species. And then, impossibly, he became a Nightstriker anyway.

Wanderer didn’t sleep, just dozed so that he could enjoy the warmth he was wrapped around and the deafening white noise of the rain.

The storm had calmed to a steady shower when Dreamer roused again, dragging his head onto Wanderer’s shoulder to blearily stare outside. “…Wrr, no bad smells now, that good. But… rain,” he mumbled

“Much rain on these small-lands. We can fly in that,” Wanderer warbled. Now that they were both awake he was impatient to do something, so he pulled himself to his paws and stretched to get his blood moving. Dreamer still hadn’t moved, so he brushed his tailfins over the Nightstriker’s nose; when that was hidden, then under his ears.

“ _Yes_ , I awake,” Dreamer eventually growled, rolling onto his back to bat at the pestering tail. When he didn’t progress from there Wanderer slapped him on the belly with it, eliciting a whiny wheeze and a retaliatory pounce. He let himself zone out for the fight, wondering what they were going to do for the day – certainly not much flying in _that_ weather – and came back to his senses when a needling pain flared in his neck. Hrrr, he might need to start paying a little more attention, he was losing a lot lately. Maybe Dreamer was taking his learning to fight a little more seriously after all.

It would be ideal if Dreamer came forward with that suggestion, it was a great activity to do in the den, but Wanderer wasn’t going to nag. Otherwise they usually just taught Fish-Legs how to talk properly, and played and ate in the big rock-den. Maybe they could go hunting later, the rain was less bothersome on the ground and under the broad leaves.

Definitely to the rock-den first, his stomach was clawing at him in anticipation. For whatever reason, the Long-Paws were more likely to feed them good things when it was raining. Sometimes even eggs. His mouth watered.

He pranced around while Dreamer stretched again, then they were flapping into the air. The very wet and cold air. He scowled while his wings warmed up, with all the extra flapping needed in the rain it didn’t take long but then they were already swooping down to duck into the big den-mouth.

Smoke assaulted his nose, in stark contrast to the pristine air outside, and he could almost feel it sticking to his wet scales. Still, the big fire was appreciated, and the pair darted through the thin tree-legs and hopped up to the stone rim around the hot embers glowing in the shallow hole. Wanderer was tempted to roll in them, but he couldn’t be bothered with the ash that would stick to him. Maybe another night, when he wasn’t wet.

Dreamer spotted his old nest-friends sat together and bounded over to hop onto the flat-tree-thing. Wanderer rolled his eyes and looked for where the food came from, spotting one of the Long-Paws who had recently given them much. He hopped over to her, wary of the Long-Paws around him, then stood on his hind-paws and tail to look up at her expectantly.

She cooed and chattered at him as she dropped the lumps of bland-smelling not-foods onto the raised surface with other foods and not-foods, then disappeared back into the place with the loud noises. While he waited for her to return, hopefully with something edible, Wanderer sniffed at the raised surface. He could smell hot meats and eggs, as well as a _very_ strong and sharp fatty smell that he was achingly curious about.

With a furtive glance around he followed his nose to the smell, walking alongside the raised surface. He knew better than to put his paws on it – the Long-Paws all made a horrible fuss when he did that – but he stood up again to look over the edge and try to work out which of the strange things was the smell. It had that old wet scent but not quite unpleasantly so, and was otherwise a pungent sharp fatty smell. Fat didn’t normally smell sharp… It was very strange.

He strained to put his nose closer to the things laid out on the surface without touching anything, and even still a Long-Paw sat nearby growled his name in a low warning with a hint of amusement. “I just _looking_ ,” he grumbled back, knowing the Long-Paw wouldn’t understand, though there was a _resigned, amused_ laugh in response.

It was tempting to snatch it up and run off with it, but outside was too wet to seriously consider doing. He was _pretty_ sure it was the pale lump anyway, rather than the tree-things that prey-things ate or the spongy not-food that only Long-Paws ate.

The female Long-Paw called his name with _amused, warning_ , and beckoned him to follow. He darted around the legs stomping about, keeping his distance from them, and followed to where Dreamer and his nest-friends sat. There she set down the flat-thing she was carrying, some meats laid out across it that didn’t smell all that fresh but were nice and hot. A bit of a waste of time and energy in Wanderer’s opinion, but it was pleasant.

He noticed the new young Long-Paw had joined them, with the long dark head-fur and the strange eyes that were both hunter and hunted. She was confusing, or maybe just confused. Wanderer didn’t like the way she looked at him, whatever the story, and kept her in his sight.

Successfully having crunched up a thick bone, he was licking out the marrow when his ears picked out an approaching Long-Paw. He recognised her footsteps without looking, the one who had brought the food out, but what was she doing back? He swivelled around, wondering if she’d brought more food – and caught a whiff of that bizarre sharp fatty maybe-food again. He warbled curiously and stalked the edge of the flat-tree-thing impatiently while she spoke to Dreamer’s nest-friends.

Dreamer’s twitching nose drifted forward as well. “What that smell?” Wanderer asked him.

“Hrrmm, it made from not-water land-prey make, like eggs but not. I not know how make, but it good,” he replied.

“I not can tell if smell good or not,” Wanderer admitted as he backed up to allow the Long-Paw to place a few small lumps of the pale stuff onto the flat-thing. His nose was over it the moment her paw pulled back, but he still couldn’t decide if it was rotten or not. He made to lick some up, but the moment his tongue touched it he jumped back and his face scrunched itself up.

The tense quiet around him erupted into Long-Paw laughs, making Wanderer jump again and momentarily forget the taste in his mouth while he pouted at them, but then it drifted back, as sharp and pungent as its smell. Fat should _not_ be a sharp flavour, he decided, but as the taste smoothed over he found it not quite so unpleasant.

He licked his chops and put his nose back to it, finding the smell bordering more on edible this time, and took a more cautious sample. His face still scrunched a little, triggering another wave of Long-Paw amusement, but it was palatable.

Dreamer crept forward for his own tentative sample, pulling a funny face with his tongue hanging out before rigorously shaking his head. The laughing Long-Paws, precariously balanced as they always were, seemed even more likely to topple over with how they were swaying around, but somehow they remained seated.

Wanderer decided he liked the strange food… in small amounts; memories from the aftermath of whatever Boundless had left for them that one night had made him more cautious of strange Long-Paw foods.

What he still couldn’t decide on, however, was this new Long-Paw. She couldn’t seem to decide if she liked the Nightstrikers or not, wanted to hurt them or not, even now as she laughed there were hints of strange expressions on her features. And if she could not tell, then how could Wanderer? He was torn between avoiding her outright and trying to discern her motives.

 _Just survive the cold-season_ … He would keep an eye on her. Nothing more.


	12. Haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I have been pretty tame in my depiction of the story thus far. This will NOT always be the case, it will have light moments and dark moments, ups and downs. The language and scenes will remain T rated (admittedly, pushing a high T at times) but some scenes will be written to hit _hard_ , and not always pleasantly. I feel this is extremely important to develop and empathise with the characters, it makes them feel all the more real and I will not hold back in doing so.
> 
> Therefore, please be warned: Vivid depiction of trauma in this chapter

“I like her,” Astrid said quietly as she sliced apart an imaginary opponent with her axe, still more than a little irked by the minute imbalance it held after its last repair. “She’s smart, diplomatic, and has her head screwed on. Teach her to fight and she’ll make a top shieldmaiden.”

“You might have to fight off us Ingermans,” Fishlegs replied airily. “On top of all that, she’s curious and inquisitive. And her touch is so delicate.”

It had taken several days, but an opportunity to properly introduce Heather to the Furies had finally presented itself when they’d flown down while she accompanied the riders on some routine training in the ring, though Snotlout had promptly excused himself with a mumble at Fishlegs. Astrid was hoping to get the girl her own dragon, their squad of riders felt a bit small for some reason but it would be _weird_ to bring in anyone older or younger.

As Fishlegs had said, the girl was very delicate in admiring Hiccup’s wings which were proudly stretched out for her. Definitely a little show-off. Curiously, Toothy didn’t appear remotely interested in her and was occupying himself with chewing an old bone.

“Hey Tuff, have you noticed Hiccup likes to show off to new people?” Astrid asked.

“Heh, yeah, he’s a character. He used to do that with the kids too, before… you know, whatever happened with him. Oh shoot, I promised to set up some more dragon play groups, Kaernut is going to have my _ears_ for taking this long. And I need them. To _hear_ things… Hey, I wonder if he’d be able to take the smaller kids flying yet?”

Ruffnut punched him. “You _idiot_ , they’d never be able to hold on.”

“Oh yeah? They could–”

Astrid tuned out their argument and approached Heather, dropping down to sit beside her. “So what do you think now?” she asked teasingly as Toothy positioned himself a little closer and accepted head scratches with a mild purr. When did they get so _big?_ Toothy was about the size of a small wolf, Hiccup about a head shorter. She remembered how tiny he’d looked in Stoick’s hands on that first night, and honestly couldn’t remember him being anything between the size he was then and the size he was now.

“They’re… amazing. So strong and powerful, so… completely free…” The last part was said quietly, almost a whisper, and she rested her hand on Hiccup’s head which was tilted at her.

Astrid snatched the opportunity. “What were they like? The Berserkers?”

A wry tone entered her voice. “Brutal, horrible people. At least they basically left me alone, just threw me in with the supplies.”

“They didn’t…?”

Heather was silent for a moment, but then shook her head, the motion tugging her braid from her shoulder. That was some small relief, at least. “I’m sorry, but I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“…I lost my mother to them in the battle.”

Heather went stiff, then bowed her head. “You have my sympathies.”

“She saved my dad when a mace broke his shield and arm, but was cut down immediately after. She’s in Valhalla now, with the rest of our family, and I’m happy for her… but… I still miss her.”

Hiccup gave a low warble, glancing between the two girls, then Toothy spoke up as well and they chattered between themselves. “Wow, I see what Fishlegs meant about them. They really look like they’re talking,” Heather remarked. “What about you, little guy? Where are your parents…?”

…That was a _very_ good question, and Astrid silently berated herself for not thinking of it sooner. She twisted to look behind her. “Fishlegs? Care to–“ She cut off as she saw him, narrowing her eyes. Fishlegs was rigid and white, staring at her like he’d been caught with an armful of sweetrolls. “…Spill it.”

“I-it’s… c-complicated,” he stammered.

“ _Try._ ” She noticed the Furies had tensed too, probably sensing the mood, so she took some of the venom out of her voice. “We have people out there, hunters, farmers, _families_ , we might be friendly with dragons but having a Night Fury on the island is _dangerous_. We _need_ to know.”

“Er… that… p-private th-thing I mentioned awhile a-ago? I can’t.” He suddenly relaxed with a sigh and stopped shaking, looking down at the ground and mumbling something under his breath she couldn’t quite catch. “If that’s what you’re worried about, no, there are no adult Night Furies here.”

Astrid’s eyebrows went up. “Not even Toothless?”

He met her gaze. “…Not even a crippled, flightless Night Fury.”

 _Rats_ , that raised more questions than it answered. The last answer in particular was strangely worded, he definitely knew more and it would be easy to twist him into telling her… but it would ruin their friendship, and as they were the only two _sensible_ dragon riders in the Archipelago she couldn’t afford to do that.

“Woah, this is tense,” Ruffnut said mildly. “You guys gonna make out now or what?”

“ _Ruffnut!_ ” Astrid barked indignantly as the girl cackled mischievously, though it at least had broken the mood. Heather had broken into fits of giggles while Fishlegs brokenly stammered out reasons they weren’t compatible.

“Anyway, what’s it matter?” Tuffnut drawled as he stepped forward and picked up Toothy under the forelegs. He had to strain a little, from nose to tail the dragon was longer than he was tall. “You’re here, who cares how?” Toothy happily licked him up the face in reply. _Yeck_ , how can he stand that? Gross.

“You guys all get along so well!” Heather exclaimed. “But what’s this about… ‘Toothless’? Was he really old or something?”

Now Astrid was laughing too. “Not quite. You’ll want to ask a Skald to recount Hiccup’s Saga for you, it’s kind of a long story.”

The girl gave a broad smile. “Alright then, I will.”

* * *

“TAKE THIS!”

Jumping back from the dagger thrust at her, Vella put her hand to her sword and eyed the blade warily. Apologies and excuses were ready on her tongue, but she held them at seeing Dagur’s confused expression.

“What are you _doing?_ I SAID to take– oh, wait, hang on.” He flipped the knife so that he was offering her the hilt instead of the point. “You’d think I’d remember after the third or fourth time HAHA.”

She relaxed and tentatively took the weapon, unexpectedly heavy in her hand. The whole thing was solid steel, not even a wrap around the hilt, and very blunt. “What…?”

“Just keep it on you, those stupid elders won’t let me leave for a couple more weeks. Any more challengers? Make sure my ship is ready to go.”

Having been with the boy since near the beginning, Vella was used to this sort of disjointed conversation. Granted, being gifted a blunt dagger was new, but she wouldn’t argue. There was always method to his apparent madness. “Yes, my Chief. And no, there are no further challengers.” There had been an onslaught of them after the miserable failure of a raid on Berk, but in typical Dagur style he knocked every single opponent unconscious without a drop of blood drawn on either side. Funnily enough, his shame had been quickly forgotten.

Dagur gave an exasperated growl. “But that just means there’s NOTHING to DO! WHAT is the point in holding me here if there’s NOBODY I need to KILL?”

“You’re the Chief, why don’t you just go anyw–“ Vella had sighed as the burly escort started talking, not bothering to watch but still hearing Dagur’s sword sliding back into its sheath before the man’s body hit the ground; they really needed to stop sending males, handling Dagur the Deranged required a more subtle touch. Though, there was a rumour going around the women’s district that some of the tribes were offering their fools and more unsavoury characters just to get rid of them. Perhaps the rumour held merit.

The Chief just kept walking as if he’d done no more than swat a fly. “Is there _anything_ that needs my attention?”

As long as it wasn’t anything even remotely treasonous, Vella figured she was safe enough to suggest something. “You could work on an heir. Or several. Many of the–“

“Ugghhh, how many TIMES do I have to SAY I don’t CARE about that? Let the strongest rule. _That_ is the Berserker way.”

“…Very well Chief. If you’re looking to burn off some Bloodlust you could check with the loggers, no doubt they are struggling for manpower.”

She kept a straight face as he rounded on her. It was difficult, even though he was a palm shorter than her. “THAT is a BORING idea Vella, ooh but logging will be good for my babies…” He giggled while he flexed and squeezed his arms.

Dagur was not a difficult man to understand, once one understood. Vella was incredulous nobody else had worked it out by now, aside from the elders, but then again most just assumed him insane. Well, his secret was safe with her, and she would do her best to ensure nobody could take advantage of it.

* * *

The knock at the door was firm but moderate, and Stoick opened it unhurriedly to let the summer twilight spill into the house. “Ah, Astrid. Come in,” he greeted her. “How is our new guest settling?” He closed the door and gestured her to a seat at the table.

“Good, she doesn’t have much in the way of cooking skills but seems willing to learn. She’s taking her responsibilities seriously too. She’s actually why I’m here, I’m… ready to give my report.”

“Aye, I thought as much. Let’s have it then.” He took a moment to pour them both a cup of water, and she gratefully took a gulp.

Taking a deep breath to collect her thoughts, Astrid took care in the words she spoke. She was learning fast, in a few years she’d be able to verbally manoeuvre while seeming bored or impatient. “For her personality, she doesn’t appear it on the surface but she’s a very grounded person. I hate to admit, she probably handles Snotlout better than I do.” Stoick’s eyebrows went up at that. “She was initially wary about the dragons, understandably, but adapted and embraced them quickly. Maybe a little _too_ quickly, but she said her village didn’t see many raids and we don’t exactly have much to compare her to. I suppose she was no quicker than us last year.

“For her story, she’s very guarded about it. The Berserker fleet encountered her parents’ fishing boat and picked it up on the way to us, taking her and the haul. Threw her in with the supplies and left her alone. I guess they were… saving her until after.” She shuddered at the thought. “But I’m not sure that sits right with me. Why bring their own spoils to the raid?”

“That was our thought too. The stories match, but she told neither of us more than the other.” He let out a long sigh and rubbed his head, knocking his helmet askew. “That in itself is not a good sign. But what harm could she possibly do? As I understand it, there’s no secret to training the dragons, just give them reason to stay. I’d happily share that knowledge if any would listen.

“It’s not the Berserker way to sabotage. A spy for another tribe, perhaps, to gauge our forces and how we’re using the dragons? Again, let her take that information. What are we _missing_ Astrid?”

“Hmm, unless she’s here to try to steal a dragon… but they’re loyal to us, they won’t go far with her. Though if we were to give her a dragon of her own…”

“…The obvious course of action, given how well you all get along.” He blew out his cheeks. “You’re right, there’s no telling what she could do then. She could give us a _very_ bad reputation… So we don’t give her one. If she gets pushy, we’ll know.” He nodded, then straightened his helmet before it could fall off. “We’ll continue keeping an eye on her, but no more than we do any new tribesman. Thank you, Astrid. Get some rest.”

“…You too, sir.” He shot her a chastening smile at the cheeky remark as she skipped from the house.

After she was gone, he slumped into his chair. Why had that been so easy? Did he just get on better with Astrid, or had he himself changed since the loss of his son? A bit of both? He thought of Hiccup, of his wild and crazy ideas. None as crazy as _freeing_ the cursed Night Fury, but look how all that had turned out.

Perhaps the world just hadn’t been ready for him. Stoick certainly hadn’t been. Hopefully he could reach his potential in Valhalla, or whatever paradise heroes of such nature were sent to…

* * *

Desperate waves of cackling brought surges of happiness to Dreamer as he snuffled the child’s neck and ear. He smelled so pure and innocent, a perfect little person before the world could have a chance at corrupting him. He purred loudly at the rough petting, knowing this child would grow up free of fear and animosity towards dragons.

The petting crossed the line to hitting; _maybe not quite so innocent then_. He let out a squeak at the impact and stalked away, pointedly depriving the child of further attention. It was the best way to deal with kids so young, especially with how much they revered the dragons’ company. _Huh_ … These kids were technically twice as old as the Nightstrikers, but were just barely comfortable on their own feet. Humans grew so _slowly_.

He joined Wanderer in chasing a pair of boys, one very confident in running and the other wildly flailing after them. Prancing and bounding around them, Dreamer flared his wings up and waved them in the air, and suddenly all three kids were running around with their arms up playing dragon.

Had children always been this adorable? He couldn’t remember.

The clumsy child tripped and fell, then pulled himself to his knees with an uncertain cry. Dreamer got there first, only hesitating a moment before licking his cheek. The child instantly calmed, giggling and rubbing him gently on the head.

He looked at Tuffnut, then nodded at the child and back over his shoulder.

“Er, you sure?” Tuffnut asked.

Dreamer grinned at him. “Yes.”

The teen shrugged and rose to his feet, walked over, then picked up the child and placed him on Dreamer’s shoulders. The child was heavier than expected, and the entire weight was taken by his forelegs, but it was comfortable. He quickly got the hang of walking, a little awkward at first, trying not to jostle his passenger too much and holding his head tall so that the boy could hold his neck for support.

The child was having the time of his _life_ , gibbering excited nonsense and wobbling wildly as Dreamer slowly flapped his wings. Was this what it had felt like for Wanderer? The size ratio was about right, though he liked to think he’d had a bit more balance than this.

Wanderer was voicing his displeasure and avoiding his own charge trying to climb on _him_. When the boy wouldn’t be dissuaded, he blocked him off with a wing and huffed at Tuffnut.

“Just a bit longer little guy, it’s about that time. I’ll make it up to you. Hey, how about after this, we go Loki Gobber? Kehehe.”

Chuffing mischievously, Wanderer went to the first child to playfully bat his feet, much to the boy’s amusement.

“You understand him?” Dreamer chirped, padding over.

“His tone, yes.” He gave their toothy joke-smile. “Who we joke?”

“Big Long-Paw, smells of smoke, has tree-leg, tree-paw. He help when we shed.”

Wanderer crooned thoughtfully. “He good Long-Paw? We… not much thinking when shedding.”

“He very good Long-Paw, like sire for me. He enjoy good joke.” They both purred their approval.

When a tall medium-built woman – one of the Thorstons, by her appearance – picked up the kids, they were taken aside to conspire. Tuffnut didn’t use words, so Dreamer couldn’t cheat his understanding, but he was remarkably good at charades and it was a simple idea. It hinged on a spot of ignorance, but then the fact wasn’t well known and Gobber hadn’t shown much interest in the Nightstrikers beyond their scales. Knowing Tuffnut, there’d be a backup plan anyway.

It came to mind he hadn’t been on this side of a prank before, or at least not intentionally. This was going to be _fun_ …

* * *

The forge was becoming a little too familiar, Gobber had spent _way_ too much time there in the last week. He and Tarbon, his replacement apprentice, had _finally_ finished repairing, sharpening and polishing a reserve of weapons, and were now working on processing the scrap iron left over from the battle.

He was thrilled for a change of pace when Tuffnut dropped Toothy on his counter, Hiccup hopping up next to him. “Ah, Tuffnut, wha’ can ah do for yeh?” he asked as he limped over.

“How much do you know about _Night Fury teeth…?_ ” the boy asked slowly.

“E’s a dragon ain’ he? They’re all tha same when it comes down to it. Wha’s the problem?”

“Oh good. I dunno, he’s having trouble biting his food. I think he might have a toothache or something.” Gobber couldn’t help smiling, the kid had really taken to the little dragons and it’d done him a _world_ of good. Here he was, actually caring for something more than himself. “I brought Hiccup to compare.” He bared his teeth at Hiccup, and the little dragon’s face split open to reveal short but _wicked_ sharp fangs lining his maw.

“Alrigh’ then,” Gobber nodded, “le’s ‘ave a look.” He turned to Toothy, who did indeed look a little sorry for himself, and copied Tuffnut’s cue.

…

“Tuffnut,”

“Yeah?”

“This dragon ‘as no teeth.”

“ _What?_ What are you talking about? Of course he has teeth, his name’s _Toothy_ for Thor’s sake.”

“No, he don’t. Ah swear, if you pulled this poor thing’s teeth for a stupid prank, ah’ll–“

“I would _never_ do such a thing to Toothy!” Tuffnut gasped at him indignantly. Come to think of it, Stoick _had_ loudly exclaimed something about Toothy along these lines… but they’d been a few mugs of ale deep and Gobber’s memory was fuzzy. And he was _sure_ they’d both had teeth when he’d helped with their shedding.

Tuffnut didn’t give him time to think. “Hey, Bucket! Come ‘ere!”

Bucket, who happened to be walking past with Mulch, stopped and turned slowly to the forge. When he saw Tuffnut beckoning he moseyed over. “Hello, Gobber! Hello, Tuffnut!” he greeted cheerfully.

“Bucket, this loon’s try’n ter tell me tha’ this dragon’s go’ teeth,” Gobber said as he waved his tongs at them.

“Oooh, yeah,” Bucket said airily as the dragon swivelled to look at him. “Sharp teeth…”

“See wha’ ah– _wait_ , wha’?” Brows furrowed, Gobber leaned forward and the dragon swivelled back. _Definitely_ no teeth. “Ah you in on this, Bucket?”

“…No… Dragon has sharp teeth,” he said slowly, scratching his bucket as Toothy turned back to him.

“Are _you_ havin’ _us_ on, Gobber? That dragon does indeed be havin’ teeth.” Mulch had just caught up to Bucket, having not been in any hurry, and Hiccup turned to look at him. “Ooooh, you mean th’ little one? Yep, that there does indeed be a toothless dragon. Well ah’ll be.”

“Ah we talkin abou’ the same dragons ‘ere?” Gobber pointed with his tongs. “This ‘ere’s Toothy. Er, the one with no teeth.” _That’s_ what Stoick had been going on about, that Toothless had teeth and Toothy didn’t. He rolled his eyes. Must be a Haddock thing.

“No, no, Toothy here definitely be havin’ teeth, i’s the other one that do nae,” Mulch insisted.

Tuffnut folded his arms. “I don’t think you _do_ know about dragon teeth, Gobber! Come on Toothy, maybe Fishlegs or Gothi can help.” Toothy hopped down from the counter and the pair took off at a jog.

“I’m thinkin’ yeh should stay off the drink durin’ the day, Gobber,” Mulch advised carefully. “Come on, Bucket.”

Gobber stared after them all incredulously, then turned to Hiccup. “Am ah goin’ _mad?_ ”

Hiccup just gave him a gummy smile before taking off after Tuffnut and Toothy.

…

Wait…

* * *

The light of the sky-fire glistened off the wet trees and ground, a dazzling sheen across the distant foliage on the small-land. Wanderer admired it all from high above, though he preferred the more subtle glow from the sky-ice at night. He sighed, lamenting the short nights that were barely even dark anymore; it was very unfair that this land had such a bright hot-season but that the inversely dark cold-season was too cold and wild to be out in.

He was enjoying himself too much for the thought to sour his mood though. He still couldn’t completely relax, a territorial Fire-Scale or a few other wing-hunters might consider the Nightstrikers a threat to their territory, but he was more comfortable watching for that.

A loud purring croon rolled from his chest, overjoyed at Dreamer’s rapid healing. He didn’t expect to be groomed, he was capable of handling it himself, but having someone else do it was absolute _bliss_ and he couldn’t wait for when they finished flying. Hrrr, speaking of, the sky-fire was just past its zenith and they hadn’t yet needed to nap. Soon they wouldn’t need to at all, though the occasional nap was always good.

Light gusts of turbulence nudged at his wings and he compensated automatically, but Dreamer wobbled wildly nearby. Wrr, nobody could observe them this far away so he didn’t have to hide his skill as much, and how was Dreamer to learn if Wanderer didn’t demonstrate? Though, some things such as turbulence simply came with practice. Lots and lots of practice.

It was still strange to fly in this small body. He was so used to having weight and momentum, it had been a shock to go back to having little of either. Rrmm, he was eating quite well this cycle though, he might even be bigger than last time. The thought had him tidying his posture and straightening his shoulders; for all his problems with the Long-Paw nest, it would be worth it.

A light brush on his tail brought him out of his thoughts, and he turned to find Dreamer lazily looping over him. Revelling in his freedom, a wave of impulse washed over him and as Dreamer looped above him again he rolled over, sunk his claws into his shoulders and flanks and folded his wings. He was close enough to hear the surprised squeak as they began plummeting to the ground below.

He nuzzled and licked and purred as the air rushed past them, revelling in the impromptu contact. After a few moments of tense surprise Dreamer found his wits, laughing as he licked Wanderer over the head. Sadly, these small bodies were still not big and strong enough for great heights and it felt like no time at all before they were forced to separate and catch themselves.

They began labouring back up, but they’d already been pushing their altitude and now Dreamer was flagging. The drop had cut their flying a little short, but it had been worth it. _Mrrr_ , and it did mean that the inevitable grooming would be sooner rather than later. He tipped his head back to the nest with a bark, Dreamer chuffed an _affirmative_ and they levelled out to glide back.

“Hungry,” Dreamer barked, reminiscent of when he’d been a hungry hatchling Wanderer had struggled to feed. He crooned his approval, Dreamer still had much weight to regain even if his body would never catch up in growing.

The tree-ground over the water had been rebuilt since its fiery demise in the nest-fight, but there were no Long-Paws busily carting fish around over it. He angled back towards the big rock-den, but Dreamer swooped down into the nest itself and towards Fish-Legs who was walking up the path.

“Fish-Legs! Hungry!” Dreamer barked at him happily as he landed, Wanderer alighting next to him a moment later.

 _Greetings, interested_ he chattered before speaking. “Hungry? Yes. We go food.”

“We _get_ food,” Dreamer corrected, though his impatient bouncing belied his interest.

“Go… Go… Get? Get…” The Long-Paw mumbled over the word as they ambled along, and Wanderer took the opportunity to get a good sniff of his leg as they walked. It didn’t even smell _remotely_ of fish. Maybe… no, the other one didn’t either. He huffed in incredulous amusement. _Long-Paws_ …

Fish-Legs approached a tree-den and opened the den-mouth, and Dreamer darted inside. Wanderer motioned for Fish-Legs to enter first, then stood in the den-mouth. It was cool and dark inside, and there were many strange smells of the foods that Long-Paws prevented from rotting while still somehow keeping edible; if barely, in some cases.

Dreamer was tossed a few fish from a tree-thing by a wall, then Wanderer happily snapped a few out of the air as well; they were even still quite fresh, recently caught. He wasn’t really hungry, but he was determined to grow to his potential. While he had been reasonably well provided for as a hatchling the first time there had been times there’d not been enough, and he was sure he’d missed out on some growing after leaving his family. This body would be bigger and stronger if he had anything to say about it.

From the back of the wood-den, Fish-Legs procured a pair of those _amazing_ chewy fish – a whole one _each!?_ They hadn’t had any since many nights before the nest-fight, and they’d never had a _whole_ one before! Half at most.

He didn’t hand them over right away though. “Say good why, I give,” he said to Dreamer, waving one of the strange fish at him. Dreamer huffed and began pawing at the dirt, so Wanderer turned with a grumble and kept lookout, doing his best to look bored. It was quiet, only one or two Long-Paws pricking his ears but none in sight.

A sound of scuffing preceded noisy chewing, and Wanderer perked and turned to Fish-Legs for his own treat. It was held out for him, so he padded over to take it much to Fish-Legs satisfaction.

No sooner than his teeth had clamped down on it, filling his mouth with the intense flavour, that some of the footsteps outside got a little too close. Wanderer spun around in time to see a silhouette enter the den mouth which then closed with a _clack_. Fish-Legs’ cry of _confused, alarm,_ matched the panic rising in Wanderer’s chest and buzzing at his limbs. After a heartbeat for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, he could easily make out the burly female Long-Paw standing between him and freedom.

Her appearance took up little of his attention compared to the broad Long-Paw claw she held, one of the big flat ones with sharp sides, but somehow the most dangerous thing about her seemed to be her eyes. Dark and small, they appeared to be set almost too far into her head and had dark rims around them, and they fixed on him with a mad glee.

The Long-Paw ignored his warning hiss, infuriatingly tiny as he was, and strode forward. He darted around it, turning back to see Dreamer fixed in place with his eyes boggling and mouth gaping, but it ignored the both of them. It walked up to Fish-Legs who was babbling and looking around wildly, apparently blinded by the darkness, then his panicked sounds suddenly cut off with a _very_ loud and hard noise that pierced Wanderer’s head and rang in his ears and eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to clear his senses, looking again to see the Long-Paw standing impassively over a crumpled form.

And then he felt the blood drain from his body as its head slowly turned to look at Dreamer.

Dreamer.

 _His Dreamer_.

He barked into what he hoped to be a dangerous growl, finally snapping Dreamer out of his trance though he could do little more than scrabble back into the corner. He was still panicking, crouching low to the ground with his chest heaving.

 _No!_ Wanderer sprung forward and sank his teeth into the Long-Paw’s leg, the taste of bitter blood fighting that of dirty salt, but it ignored him and even dragged him along as it took slow steps forward. _Anger, anger, anger_ , it growled as it went. _Ground this small body!_ Gutting it was out of the question, he would need to slash its throat or blind it. With a guttural snarl he clawed his way up the Long-Paw, feeling his claws cut shallowly into flesh through the thick not-skins, but this time it took notice.

As his paw grabbed its shoulder a long paw closed around his hindleg and he was ripped off, shreds of not-skin coming away in his claws, and he could only flail as he was swung around. Dirt filled his senses as his head met the ground, but he kept going and pain cut through his daze as he collided with the wall and crumpled into a heap. He dimly heard his pained yelp echoed by a cry of alarm and then an angry growl from Dreamer.

But now the Long-Paw was fixed on Wanderer, growling and snarling Long-Paw words at him while it raised its broad claw.

“Dreamer,” he gasped, “den-mouth!”

The smaller Nightstriker leapt into action, shooting past the Long-Paw and jumping up to the mechanism. The broad claw halted in the air, and then shouts of _surprise, bewilderment, hate, RAGE,_ got Wanderer’s paws back under him despite his aching head and foggy thoughts. He leaped and again bit into the leg, though it had as much effect as the first time.

His heart stopped as he felt the motion and jolt of impact through the leg, and heard the _YIPE_ of pain.

Then light grew in the wood-den as the den-mouth opened, and Wanderer’s heart started again as he heard scrabbling and the outraged cries of the Long-Paw.

It seemed to realise he was there again and the leg started moving, but he let go and let the Long-Paw throw itself off-balance. He seized the opportunity and darted around it and out into the light, panic surging as a _chunk_ announced the broad claw burying into the ground next to his tail; his folded tail fins brushed it on the way past.

Pain lanced through Wanderer’s wing as he tried to open it, so all he could do was run. He didn’t know where to, his thoughts slid from his mind and he didn’t recognise where he was. Dreamer swooped down to run a little ahead of him, thankfully leading him hopefully to safety but also putting himself in danger again. Especially with all the noise he was making, shouting and barking as he was.

Dreamer stopped, and Wanderer was aware of him barking and whining frantically, but darkness was creeping across his sight. He could hear Dreamer clearly, but other sounds seemed slow and muted, and suddenly his paws would no longer support him. He felt his side hit the ground, aware of another cry of alarm and a tongue over his face, but it couldn’t keep the darkness from consuming him.

* * *

“Haha, well I wasn’t there for the whole naming thing, but Hiccup wasn’t the type to give a degrading name. No, it turns out Night Furies can sheath their teeth, I guess he initially thought the dragon didn’t have any.” Astrid rolled her eyes. “That would have been _very_ Hiccup.”

Heather laughed. “That wasn’t mentioned in the saga! It seems like an important detail.”

“Yeah, well it was embellished in a few areas. I’m also pretty sure he wouldn’t have ‘heroically’ swallowed that raw fish either. _Only he_ would think to try eating a something a dragon barfed up for him instead of taking insult. Well, I suppose I can’t argue with the results.”

“It’s incredible, I–“

“ _Shh_ ,” Astrid hissed, stopping their slow pace. She’d thought she heard something… Yes, those were definitely distressed dragon sounds, getting closer. She couldn’t quite make out which dragon, and there were none in the sky over Berk.

“It sounds like it’s coming from this way,” Heather offered, leaning in between some houses. The path they’d just walked up looped around those buildings, so Astrid beckoned and took off at a run.

They hadn’t even reached the corner when a frantic Hiccup shot out from around the house, quickly followed by a dazed Toothy. She crouched low and Hiccup bolted up to her, whining and barking and growling, then nosed at his flank – Astrid went rigid as she saw the long cut oozing dark blood.

“What–“ she started, but Toothy promptly collapsed onto his side. Hiccup spun around with a panicked bark and nosed over his head and licked at his face, but the Night Fury’s eyes drifted closed anyway.

Astrid saw red. “Heather,” she growled through her teeth, “we need to go back and find Fishlegs again.” Hiccup turned and whined at her, and she leaned forward as if it would help her understand him. “…Fishlegs?” He whined again. That didn’t bode well.

She sized up Toothy. He was far too big now to carry without heavily jostling him, and it looked likely he’d suffered a head wound. _Someone is going to_ die _today_ , she thought murderously, then started as Stormfly _slammed_ into the ground next to her and bounced to a halt in front of Hiccup. She gave some low, short barks, to which the little Night Fury hissed and growled a reply, and the spines around her head and along her tail flexed dangerously.

“Stormfly, we need to get Toothy to Fishlegs,” Astrid said icily, then suppressed her surprise as the dragon promptly picked up Toothy in her mouth and fixed her with a level look. “Heather, go find Stoick.”

The girl had been watching the exchange sternly, and even with everything going on Astrid noted her upper lip twitching, clenched jaw, and anger in her eyes, again tucking it aside to think on later. At the order, she gave a defiant look, then turned and threw open the door of a nearby house. Her posture changed as she did so, becoming frightened and wary. “Help!” she shouted, “The Furies have been hurt, someone get Stoick!”

 _Disobedient little… Focus, think about it later._ A meaty boy, maybe ten or eleven, bolted out of the house, took a few seconds to stare at the two dragons and two girls staring back at him, then took off up into the village as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Fine then,” Astrid growled, “just stay back. We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with here.” Something flashed through Heather’s eyes, and she nodded.

Stormfly took long, even strides after Hiccup, staying close to his tail as he scuttled down the path. Astrid’s axe was in her hand as she loped after them, and Heather easily kept pace just behind her. She took the time to cool her blood, level out her thoughts, reign in her rage. She thought of the derision directed at the Berserkers after the battle, how their blind rage made them strong fighters but weak warriors. She could be better than that.

They stopped not too far from Fishlegs’ house, Hiccup nervously watching a storeroom with its door ajar. At this point Astrid noticed him heavily favouring his injured leg, it hadn’t been obvious before with how his wings obscured his body while he scurried along but he wasn’t using it at all.

She spun her axe in her hand and squeezed an eye shut, prowling across the front of the small building to try to get an idea of what was inside. Hiccup appeared by the door and poked his nose around it, then relaxed a little and slunk inside.

Trusting the dragon’s sense of smell Astrid stalked inside and spun, letting her darkness-adjusted eye take in the interior properly. Nothing but boxes, barrels, and a mound of– “Fishlegs!” she shouted, dropping to her friend’s side. The wings on his helmet were bent flat, but he was breathing. She rolled him over and patted his face, but he was out cold.

Heather was suddenly beside her, but only seemed able to stare at the teen and made no effort to help. Astrid rolled him onto his side and tilted his head to ensure his breathing wouldn’t be obstructed, but then slumped. She had _no idea_ how to help an injured dragon beyond packing a wound, but they preferred taking care of that themselves anyway. Without Fishlegs… she was lost. She was being pulled in three different directions, one to help Fishlegs, one to help Toothy, and one to track down the perpetrator. But she couldn’t do all of them.

One of them she was better at than the others.

She stood and darted back outside, then crouched by Hiccup who was laying against Stormfly’s leg to clean his wound. The poor little dragon was shaking all over, and while his frills were flat to his head his ears stood up on end. “Hey,” she said gently as he stopped cleaning to watch her. “I know you’re scared and hurt, and I’m sorry, but… Track…?” She pointed to his flank, then gestured to the storehouse and Toothy. Hopefully he remembered the word, or could make sense of her.

He watched her uncertainly – it was unsettling with his eyes narrowed to slits – but with a glance at his brother he bared his teeth and growled, then limped back to the door and put his nose to the ground. While he picked up the scent, Astrid motioned to Stormfly to stay, then helped to gently lower the limp Night Fury to a patch of grass.

Stormfly made a fierce sound, one that didn’t need translating; _good hunting_. Astrid nodded and took off after Hiccup, trusting her dragon to know more of how to care for Toothy.

Down the village they went, Astrid quickly noticing the dark blotches that Hiccup regularly put his nose to. Her heart surged in knowing the little Furies had given as good as they’d got, though the marks stopped abruptly. Down, down, until they reached the ramps to the docks and a pit formed in Astrid’s stomach. Down, down, Hiccup struggling to keep his pace but fighting on. Along the docks and out to – an empty pier.

Hiccup stopped, then looked up at Astrid and whined.

“Okay, okay, ummm…” Astrid racked her head for ideas. How much of a head start did they have? Quite a good one. There was also no name or face to the perpetrator, but they were injured… Stormfly could get the scent, but they’d need to fly out to every boat, and there were a dozen of them stretched across the horizon.

She could only try.

* * *

Sound was the first thing Wanderer was aware of. Not any sounds in particular, just that there was sound. It throbbed with a dull and distant ache in his head, a pain that simply said not to move, so he didn’t.

Was he safe? Smell came next, just enough to take in stone, Dreamer, and Storm-Fly. Yes, he was safe.

He let out a relieved sigh as he drifted off.

After a timeless rest, he roused again. The ache in his head was less but still told him to take it easy, so he cracked open an eye to see Dreamer filling his vision. He had to close it again as a wet tongue ran gently over his head, cooling and soothing the sore spot on the side.

They were in their den, and he could smell Storm-Fly nearby as well, confirming their safety. Even still, it was all he could do to stop himself from bolting out and flying as far as his wings would carry him. He vocalised his displeasure in pained whines, pulling Dreamer closer to nuzzle into his chest and clutch at his comforting purrs.

He _hated_ this uncertainty. Sometimes, in his old warm-nest, Fire-Scales challenged him for status and rarely a Spine-Tail might perceive some slight – he couldn’t help if he was sleeker, faster, and better-looking – and take enough offense to challenge, but that was routine and not particularly life-threatening. Even the queen had been straightforward and predictable for the most part. His old nest had made sense. Here, he was beginning to think that it wasn’t that he couldn’t understand the Long-Paw nest, but that they were just not things that could be made sense of. He was understanding them _less_ the more he was around them.

He couldn’t work it out. It wasn’t a male competing for their dam, not that such attempts ever worked out well, and they were far too young to challenge for status or any reason really. “Why…?” he asked into his friend-mate once he got his whimpers under control.

“She lose hatchling to scale-wing-hunter,” Dreamer said into the back of his neck. “She angry still, not care queen do.”

“ _That_ why attack fledglings?” Wanderer whined incredulously, but noticed the tells in Dreamer’s breathing and muscles. “…You not say all…”

“I say all. Queen do.”

“I do,” he said meekly, instantly knowing he was right.

“No,” Dreamer brushed across his back as he curled up into the embrace. “Queen do. Also bad Long-Paw not know you fledgling. She have bad thinking.”

“It nearly kill us!” Wanderer growled. “I kill many Long-Paws. _All_ dams angry for Nightstrikers? Only need _one_ thing want kill us. We not safe here.”

“…We not safe here,” Dreamer agreed, “but we not safe… not here. We go, we still not safe.” He gave a gentle nuzzle. “We need survive cold-season.”

Wanderer whimpered and took a deep breath, recognising truth – and in the process, caught the smell of Nightstriker blood. He couldn’t feel any cuts on himself, which meant… He wearily pulled himself to his paws, the dull ache in his head flaring in warning.

The smell wasn’t fresh, but it was recent. He didn’t have to look far. Dreamer was still laying on his side, not having moved, and right – there on his – right flank – _Dreamer’s_ – a – long – _blood_ – gash –

 _Sinking his claws into the frail leg, he pulled Dreamer close to wrap around him as they fell. He rolled so that he would hit the ground first – then felt his bones snap and his wing tear, the impact slamming into his chest an instant later. He fought off the panic, he had to hope…_ Maybe, maybe…

 _He twisted out from under the tail before it could crush them, and his back hit the ground a frantic heartbeat later. The air exploded from his lungs and his muscles strained to keep himself from crushing his friend as they rolled to a stop._ Maybe… please… _His heart raced as the form in his embrace did not stir… then something splintered and shattered inside him as he felt a warm wetness spreading rapidly down his chest._

NO! _Not now! Not after everything…_ Maybe, maybe… _He still had it, that curious sensation that had started when he’d been grounded._ Maybe, maybe… _His whole body screamed in protest, but he dragged his head down, eyes still closed, and tightened his embrace as best he could, focusing,_ willing _his Dreamer to live, to take the new life, even as blood pooled in his wings…_

_He felt the moment Dreamer slipped from his broken body, and keened in oppressive silence. He hugged his lifeless burden, nuzzling it through what was left of the wing membranes and whimpering raggedly. His broken wings, his torn tail fin, his grounding, all inconsequential in the face of his anguish._

_Finally, drained of everything, he took a long shaky breath… Had it worked? How would he know? And how would he… No, worry about that later. He fought the blackness creeping into his mind, and focused… Had anything changed?_

Thump-thump.

_Maybe… maybe… He slumped. There was nothing more he could do. He probably wouldn’t die from these wounds, but he needed time to recover before he could work things out._

_Long-Paw shouts. Dreamer’s idiot sire. He ignored them._

_The shouts neared, then a stumbling run sounded towards him. He didn’t have the energy to fight, but he did manage to crack open an eye. The Long-Paw, lowered to its knees, stared at him pleadingly. He put all the scorn he could manage into his glare back at it._

_It bowed its head and he let darkness claim his sight again, drifting in and out of consciousness. They took Dreamer’s body from him, ignoring his feeble whines; he was too weary and injured to stop them, though it was empty now anyway._

_Time passed, marked only by the slow drying of the blood on his scales. The smell filled his nose and beat at his sanity, a constant reminder of his failure and loss, but he could only suffer it. Sometimes the wind would blow in just the right direction to grant him reprieve… but then it would change again, and the anguish would hit him twice as hard._

_His own wounds, severe as they were, had staunched long ago. He tried to move, and with a whiny groan he managed to do very little at all. It got the attention of the fierce young female, though as she approached she appeared deflated and her face was wet. Wanderer saw her sadness for him, for his sadness._

_Her hums attempted comfort, but were meaningless. Only one thing held meaning now. He closed his eyes, trying not to breathe through his nose… When she returned some time later she offered him a deep-round-thing with water in it, which he painfully craned to reach and lap at feebly. It did little more than wet his mouth, but it helped._

_She then used a crumpled thing in her paw to rub the water onto him. He whined at the renewed smell, but the ministration did not cease. She was cleaning him, he realised. Half of him was heavily grateful, the other half moaned and whined that it was another part of Dreamer that was no longer with him._

He squeezed his eyes shut. He had to hope, had to… Was that him whining? Wait, where was he, in some kind of cave?

Reality trickled back in and his clamped muscles began to unlock, but the pain in his head reached debilitating levels and forced him to the ground. He recognised frantic whines and licks over his face, which was already quite damp. _Dreamer_ … Cracking his eyes open, he tried to give a reassuring croon but it came out as a pathetic whimper. Every part of his body felt like it had been flying all day, in different directions. Not the first time this had happened, but not for a long time now and not this badly. He attributed it to his head-hurt, his thinking had been turbulent since then.

Focusing on long, slow breaths, he tenderly stretched his limbs as best he could. Dreamer’s frantic fussing was anything but helpful, but he managed to wave him off with a light growl.

He desperately needed sleep, but there was something he needed to do first. He unsteadily rose to his paws and ambled around his uncertain Dreamer to his flank. Shakily – only partially due to his fatigue – he ran his tongue over the wound. It was deep, probably enough to scar, but already well enough treated. He did so again anyway, more for the act than the result.

 _My Dreamer…_ He purred and nuzzled into his side, collapsing on top of him and whining his happiness and relief as he rapidly descended into sleep.

* * *

Brenna hastily moored her fishing boat to a rock tucked away in the channel through the middle of the main island and stowed the sail, but she wasn’t really paying attention to what she was doing. Who’d taught the dumb rats to _open_ _doors?_ Even if she could go back, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to sleep in her own bed again, not knowing that the beasts could just wander in whenever they felt like it. Her skin crawled with knowing what a lie her safety had been thus far.

Once the boat was just another dim shape in the shadows of the tall rock walls rising either side of the channel, she climbed out and rested on the cool stone ledge she’d moored against to rewrap her leg. She poured salt water over it, ignoring the pain to brush the blood off and inspect the injury. Two bites, two curved sets of puncture marks, but not any real damage. She’d have an interesting scar at least. The cuts over her back were shallow, merely a discomfort and not worth attention.

She knew better than to try to escape straight away, they only needed to hold her until the boy regained consciousness. The testimony of dragons was worthless, but with these bites and the boy’s word… Maybe she should have just killed him, it would have made her as evil as the beasts but at least she’d be helping Berk free itself of them.

Not as evil as that snake Mildew at least. She’d thought he had hated the dragons as much as anyone, but it turned out he’d just loved himself more. She spat onto the rock. Good riddance. She’d been so furious with him she’d almost forgotten her own grudge, at least until she’d spotted the black monsters scrounging in the bloody field after the battle. That was when she’d realised she hadn’t just been fighting for her family, she was fighting for _all_ the families on Berk.

Though, she did have to admit, Mildew’s plans had been far better. All Brenna was capable of was waiting for an opportunity, then screwing it up so badly she’d had to flee the village.

She thought and prepared while waiting for the sun to set, which seemed the best time to cast off. While the summer night would not hide her boat completely, it would certainly be harder to see and they were likely to assume her long gone by then.

But then what? She wasn’t an Outcast – as good as one, but not – so she could go to the other tribes. Not allies of Berk though, she couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t get a message there first… So then…

Slowly, a plan formed. She could go maybe two days with what she had on the boat, but if she could hop islands to make fire and refill her water she could travel significantly further. Her boat wasn’t quite as fast as a longship, but unladen it came close. It also wasn’t big, but nor was it small.

Yes… She could have her revenge on the evil offspring of the demon that had killed her husband and son, and perhaps even be celebrated a hero in the process…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanderer's episode is based on PTSD, but that is all. I am not going to put a label to it. I actually know a couple of people with different levels of the disorder, and I do not take it lightly, but nor do I assume to be familiar with its effects and certainly not enough to write a character with it. Here, he is vividly recalling a torturous memory to the point he loses his grounding in reality, the result of a mountain of stress on top of a head injury.
> 
> Secondly, life does get in the way after all. I will unfortunately need to drop to fortnightly updates while I catch up on... everything. I don't know how long this will be, at least until I can catch up on my studies and refill my buffer. If you are looking for something to read in the meantime, I recommend Seeker by Aelan-the-Guide on FFN, a similarly feral story about a Night Fury that's just past its prologue. It's a bit grittier than AGoW but promising to be a good read.


	13. Reprieve

“It’s like the Bifrost plucked their ship out of the Archipelago! It’s not big, they can’t have gone far!”

Ah, to still be young. Stoick’s own fury was bottled up, waiting for just the right moment to unleash itself on the offender; assuming he ever got the chance. At least the little dragons had come out of it okay, if not unscathed, though their trust would need to be earned again. _No, wait…_ He was back to thinking of them like animals, how much evidence to the contrary did he _need?_ Well, he would still need to make it up to them somehow.

A timid knock at the door announced Fishlegs, who quickly let himself in and waved a piece of parchment. “Found her! Hiccup insisted on tracking her to her house, his leg’s pretty messed up but that’s the advantage of having four of them I guess. Oh, right, er, her name is Brenna no-clan, lost a husband and son when a tower fell on them during a raid and never really got over it, we were told. Worked a fishing boat, probably the one she took. Got a description of her here.”

The name was familiar… A recent incident? He’d look it up later. “Good. Give it to the runner to get to Spitelout with a message he’s to leave as soon as his dragon’s rested.” Fishlegs moved to obey with a curt nod, and Stoick turned to Astrid as she paced around the room. “Calm, lass. I know it’s hard, but you can’t explode at everything.”

“Just… this one hit so close to home, you know?”

Stoick gave a wry chuckle. “When you’re Chief, _every_ problem is close to home.”

Fishlegs re-entered and stood awkwardly at the door until Stoick motioned for him to take a seat. “How are you, lad?”

He shrugged. “Nothing like a knock on the head to start the day, right? Er, figure of speech, I know it’s night. So to speak.”

“Same old Fishlegs,” Astrid sighed in relief as she took a seat as well. Under her breath, she light-heartedly added “Though if it were anyone else, we’d be worried…”

“And the Furies?”

The boy gingerly shook his head. “Toothy was yet to regain consciousness when we left him in their stable. Speaking of, you might want to forget Stormfly for a little while, Astrid. She’s going _nowhere_. Hiccup’s wound closed pretty quickly, as deep as it is, though it still looks pretty bad. He’ll probably get a good scar out of it.”

“…What do they… think… about…” Stoick was trying, but he still had trouble connecting the idea in his head.

Fishlegs sighed. “We won’t know until Toothy wakes… Heh, I guess you could call him the ‘big brother’ of the pair. Anyway, Hiccup says they might spend some time away from the village for a while, but they’ll be back.”

Stoick baulked. “Away from– where will they go? It’s dangerous out there!”

“I dunno, he wouldn’t say. I think that was the point.”

Sighing, Stoick rubbed his head. “Help me understand, Fishlegs, what am I dealing with here? They’re not… _tribesmen_ , I can’t order them around, but they aren’t sheep or yaks either.”

“I think you’re looking at it the wrong way,” he said. “You’re trying to fit them into existing categories, but there isn’t really–“

“A Chief’s Heir!” Astrid shouted. “Just think of them like Thuggory or Cami, our honoured guests. Just, you know, without Mogadon or Bertha around.”

“ _That_ is something I can work with, thank you Astrid.” Heh, there would probably be a similar fallout when the parents picked them up, too. “…Fishlegs, where _are_ their parents?”

Astrid lit up like a Monstrous Nightmare, leaning on the edge of her seat and staring intently, but Fishlegs just sighed. “We don’t have to worry about any Night Furies coming to check on them.” He fidgeted while Stoick exercised his namesake. “Alright, look, I will tell you if you order me to, but hear me out first. Yes, I know the full story… _most_ of it, anyway, and we have _nothing_ to worry about. There won’t be any angry Furies looking for them, and there aren’t any others on the island. However, if I _do_ tell you, things get a _lot_ more complicated and then the Furies have promised they’ll leave. Forever.”

“Not a _word_ of this to _anyone_ ,” Stoick growled to both teens, then took in their frantic nodding. If word about dragons keeping secrets got out… It wouldn’t even need the belief they could talk, many people only saw the bad in things regardless of what leaps of logic they had to make or ignore.

With that out of the way… he wasn’t thrilled with the idea himself. Secrets implied they had done or would do something he wouldn’t like. Given their promise, it was something big, too. “I would ask questions.”

“I might have answers.”

Despite himself, Stoick huffed a laugh. The boy would make an _excellent_ Advisor one day. “Can you guarantee this secret will not harm anyone or the village?”

“Yes.”

“Does it pertain to something or someone who _has?_ ”

A few moments of silence. “Not directly. They are here on purely friendly terms, if that’s what you mean.”

Cryptic… Stoick had never been good with that sort of thing, but the intent was clear. Good enough. “So someone brought them here?” Silence; admittedly, that was more a test for the boy than the dragons. “I mean that nobody has any claim on them.”

“They’re half Hooligan and half wild dragon, no other allegiances.”

Had this been Gobber or Spitelout he probably would have jokingly asked which one was the Hooligan, but he bit back the remark. “They keep it for personal reasons then?” Fishlegs nodded. “Alright then. Go get some rest.” He had a few ideas but there was always a missing piece of the puzzle, no doubt the part that was painful for them. Stoick could respect that, with the assurances that were given.

Astrid… less so. “Yeh can’t know everything either, lass.”

She groaned. “I know, I’m just sooo curious. Is this what Fishlegs feels about _everything?_ Yeesh, no wonder he’s so excitable.” They shared a chuckle.

Heirs, it was so obvious now. This might not be so hard after all. The Night Furies were special, so he could even think of the other dragons as their clan members; lower ranking but still deserving of respect and fair treatment, and mostly outside of Hooligan jurisdiction. It was a good thing he’d been given the idea before he’d asked the question, he would probably have been far less diplomatic then…

But this he could work with. “Although… If we’re to think of them as Heirs, we have some work to do.”

* * *

Wanderer _purred_ as the sky-fire heated his scales and sleep licked his mind. His back-spines were comfortably slotted into the sand under him, allowing him to fully expose his underside to the warm light. _Clever Dreamer_ … His tail swept across the sand, brushing the bank that Dreamer had dug up; it was shallow, but enough to hide them from Long-Paws on the water. This particular position on the beach was also quite well hidden from the sky unless flying in from sea, which was unlikely from this angle.

It was liberating to lay there like that, out in the open with almost all his guards lowered. Exposed, but where he would not be seen, only his hearing sharp for the sound of wings cutting through the air. _Nothing_ could sneak up on them here, not even another Nightstriker. Dreamer had challenged him to, he’d only ever got as far as the top of the cliff and not even that far if trying to fly in.

This was _exactly_ what he needed right now, to show the world he was not a scared little hatchling hiding away or jumping at every movement. He loved that his Dreamer would always soar when he needed him to, just as Wanderer tried to do for him.

Eventually the cool breeze overcame the warmth as the sky-fire began to burn out, but he was content to remain there a little longer. Hrrr, then again, Dreamer was fidgeting and clearly eager to get moving. He rolled to his paws and shook himself free of the damp sand. “What you doing?” he warbled.

“Make Nightstriker in sand,” Dreamer replied absently as he picked at a mound with a claw. Curiosity thrummed in Wanderer’s throat as he leaned in to look… if he ignored the smell, texture, colour, and lifelessness, it sort of almost did look like a Nightstriker.

He nosed at Dreamer’s injured flank before tending to it; it was healing nicely and he was able to put a little weight on it now. Wanderer’s head-hurt had stopped aching a pawful of nights ago, and his wing now just felt a bit bruised and tender but was not painful to fly on.

The poised wings belied Dreamer’s apparent placidness – smirking, Wanderer licked the sensitive wingtip and barked in amusement as Dreamer yipped and tackled him. Cheeky Nightstriker was not above abusing his reluctance to play roughly with the still-healing injury, enthusiastically clawing and biting while Wanderer just tried to hold him off.

He rolled out of the pin and skipped away, feigning boredom while Dreamer limped after him. “Hrrmm, I thought you faster,” he teased, then jumped away from a flap-powered leap that ended predictably poorly.

Dreamer huffed as he shook sand off his head. “First for catch wing-prey get bigger prey!”

Barking in alarm, Wanderer leapt into the air after him and wheeled up the scattered updrafts, then laboured up above wing-prey level. He had to fight the air here as it knocked him from side to side, his body still just a little too small to ride through it, but it was good for building strength. Dreamer was having a harder time nearby, as he was less experienced and even smaller.

He spotted a flock of wing-prey a little way out to sea and waited for them to near, letting himself drift as best he could. When they were too far below to see his intentions, he used the turbulent air to silently cruise over with minimal loss in altitude.

Dreamer was going for a different tactic, swooping for speed and coming up behind them. Wanderer didn’t want to scatter the flock for nothing, but he _did_ want to get there first… As soon as he dared, he folded his wings and plummeted at an angle, not quite as steep as he would have liked but fast and in their blind spot. He adjusted with minute twitches of his folded wings, and at the last second opened his mouth to snatch his chosen quarry by its neck, killing it instantly. He flipped to grab it in his paws and look back, seeing two clouds of feathers scattering in the breeze. _Eels_ , he hadn’t seen who’d won.

He transferred the kill back to his mouth to land, Dreamer floating down gently shortly after and flapping into a hover just above the ground to lower himself down. “I not see who win,” Wanderer admitted as they lay their kills out.

“You win. Barely,” he pouted.

With a haughty chuff Wanderer compared the two to pick his prize – and grumbled when he discovered they were the same size. Yes it was good that Dreamer would not eat less, but he felt like he’d been cheated and if they were still hungry they’d just hunt again.

“Wrrr, good catch,” Dreamer warbled as Wanderer arbitrarily picked one and took it aside to tear into it. “Much easier than when hatchlings.”

“Yes, need more now but still easier.”

They made short work of their catches, the silence only broken by the crunching of bones, the wet tearing of meat, and the waves lapping at the sand.

“What we do this night?” Dreamer asked while cleaning his claws and face.

Wanderer hummed thoughtfully as he did the same. “Could swim,” he suggested, tilting his head towards the beach. “Water-hunters maybe, but safe near. Or could fly to other small-land.”

“Other small-land?” Dreamer perked, his tail lashing excitedly. “Where?”

With a shrug, he started sharpening his claws on the rock. “Just fly, find small-land for rest, fly back. Not need big small-land, only enough for rest on.”

“We do that! Us only!” The smaller Nightstriker bounced and flapped impatiently.

Hrrr, come to think of it they hadn’t just flown off to nowhere since being hatched again. “Yes,” Wanderer chuffed happily. “But catch again wing-prey first. Last for catch get ear licked!”

* * *

Low to the ground, melting into shadows and prowling forward, Dreamer eyed his quarry. The wind shifted and he moved with it to stay upwind. He was _very_ mindful of the path he took, littered with little patches of danger as much of it was, until he was almost surrounded.

He took a long breath and held it – his enormous lungs held enough air for several minutes when not exerting himself – and picked up his pace, hopping over the steps on his injured leg. He could feel Wanderer’s eyes boring critically into his back, but he didn’t intend on getting caught. The target loomed above him, tall innocent strands of grass swaying gently in the breeze. Even holding his breath the smell tickled his nostrils and filled his mind with temptation, but he could be strong.

This was the tricky bit. Taking hold of something so narrow was near impossible with his paws, so he had to improvise. Balancing on his haunches and tail, he hooked two claws behind a blade and, from his other paw, one claw in front of it. With a quick slice, the scissor-motion cleanly snapped the reed. _Yes, it worked!_

Two stalks proved to be no trouble but three was less reliable, so he made quick work of a dozen more blades in pairs. Wary of the growing pressure in his lungs, he dropped the pair of flat rocks in his mouth and neatly lined up the blades over one of them, then took it in his good hindpaw. It was a little awkward to navigate them onto the other rock as well, but he managed, and gingerly took it in the paw of his injured leg.

The blades were now securely pinned between the rocks and his paws, and while he wasn’t out of the trees yet he did feel elated at his success. _Whuff, I’m going to get rusty if my greatest technical accomplishment this year is picking up some grass…_

Very awkwardly and with a flare of pain deep in his leg, he stumbled into the air to be quickly joined by Wanderer. “Hrrr, I not can see how rocks let you carry sweet-grass… But you do… You clever Dreamer,” he crooned.

“I hold rock. Sweet-grass between rock and paw, not can get out.”

“Clever Dreamer,” he repeated as he barrel-rolled around him.

The journey across the island last summer, when they had been much smaller, had taken significantly longer. Dreamer marvelled at the difference in how his wings carried him now, how the air didn’t seem to slow him down as much. Strange as it was, the bigger he got the lighter he felt, and the less he needed to exert himself. He didn’t feel far off the agility that Wanderer had shown while fully grown, but then he did have two perfectly functional tail fins.

He drifted a little higher to take in the scenes of the massive island; wondering if he could ever reach the top of the massive mountain in the middle, watching for other dragons, picking out the occasional field and shed. There were even a few new houses and animal pens, which made sense now that dragon raids were no longer a thing. An old fishing boat hugged the island, despite the early hour. It was all very serene.

With practised confidence, Dreamer drifted down into a hover above the stone outside their den, then braced his landing with his tail to lower himself to the ground. His claws uncomfortably pinched between the rocks and the hard ground, but his strong tail supported his weight enough to free them.

Wanderer immediately nudged him away from the haul and pushed him over to treat his wound again. He wasn’t really sure how much it was helping, but his body seemed to approve and the cut didn’t feel as tight afterwards. He hoped he wouldn’t have a limp for the rest of his life. The rest of this life?

He was finally allowed to rise to his paws, and promptly bounded over to dive into the grass. He nuzzled and rolled even as he clawed and shredded it, there were maybe thirty strands all as long as he himself, so there was plenty for the two of them.

With nobody here to be embarrassed by, he loudly purred, squeaked, and growled his approval. It must have been in his head but his scales _ached_ for contact with it, particularly those on his face and neck. He caught Wanderer hoarding the heads of the stalks, and unleashed a ferocious growl at him. Tried to, anyway. What came out was closer to an indignant chirp, and only served to have Wanderer laughing uproariously with his tail thrashing.

A dragon laughing was suddenly the funniest thing he had ever heard, and he fell on his side with his own raucous laugh. Which was then even funnier, because he was a dragon as well.

He was trying to remember what had been so funny, his chest still heaving, when something brushed his nose. _Oh, hey, sweet-grass!_ He rolled in it, happily crooning his happiness. For some reason his throat and tail ached, but he was having too much fun to care. It felt particularly good on his neck. _If Vikings drank ale like this, maybe they not smell so bad!_ He laughed so hard at his own joke he thought his tail was going to fall off.

“Hey! Hey!” Wanderer giddily nudged him until he rose to his paws, wheezing for breath. It was a lot easier after he figured out he needed to roll off his back. “Who this?” He put on a mock-serious face – clearly struggling to keep it straight – and sheathed his top teeth. His bottom teeth remained out.

Dreamer _completely_ lost it.

* * *

“You didn’t have to come for my sake, I don’t mind doing this on my own.”

Astrid playfully elbowed the girl as they walked down the village, bustling with the usual evening activity. “I’m _not_ doing this for your sake, it’s something I really should have done a long time ago. Besides, it might be fun. It’s nothing to do with the fact that I kicked your butt.”

Heather rubbed her side with a grimace through her grin. “It wasn’t my butt you kicked. Did you _really_ have to do that? That’s going to bruise.”

They met Snotlout going the other way, but all they got was a “Hey,” with a casual grin. He looked _drained_ , but if it meant she didn’t have to put up with him hitting on her then she wasn’t going to argue. She put him out of her mind.

“Yeah, well, you’re a quick study. If I hadn’t stepped it up you might have actually come close to hitting me,” she replied, poking her tongue out. Maybe she _should_ have gone a little easier, but then fights were rarely fair and involved a lot of pain. She’d get over it.

“Alright, alright. I do appreciate you teaching me though, thank you.”

“No worries.” Astrid was overjoyed to have someone civilised to spar against, despite her inexperience, and it did seem to be working the girl out of her moping since the Furies had left.

They reached Fishlegs’ house, where they’d been told they could find him, knocked on the door, and entered at the muffled shout.

“Back here!” They followed the voice into a side room near the back, the Ingerman study. Looked like he had it to himself today. “Astrid! Heather!” He immediately perked upon seeing them, hopping out of the chair to stand there nervously. “Uh, hi!”

“Hello Fishlegs,” Heather greeted him sweetly. She was going to have _all_ the boys pining over her if she kept that up, she needed to roughen up a bit.

“’Sup Fish? Heather and I were wondering, would you… teach us Dragonese? She wants to learn, and I… should.”

He looked at them blankly for a moment, then slumped with a groan.

“Please?” Heather stepped forward before he could say anything, and put a hand on his arm. “It would mean a lot to us…”

Fishlegs shuffled on the spot, straightening. “Well, I _could_ go over a few bits with you now… Here.” He flipped open a book on the table, then slid the chair out of the way so they could all crowd around it. Astrid had to blink a few times, her eyes still adjusting to the candlelight. Actually not as much as she’d thought, half of both pages really were covered in strange marks and squiggles. “You can borrow this for a few days, it’s everything I know right now. Actually, you’ll be a better test for if the book can teach on its own. Here, I’ll show you enough to get you started.

“See here? This is the legend.” He pointed at a section at the top, a set of symbols listed against ‘head’, ‘paw’, ‘wings’, ‘body’, and ‘tail’. “A lot of their words are body language, and most of them are really easy to pick up. Here, this one,” he pointed to the sort of V symbol with a hooked and curved arrow next to it, “says to move head in a sweeping motion. Here it says what it means, ‘us’ or ‘we’, and sometimes there’s a little note under it. In this case you nod down, like in ‘I’, and then sweep across to someone else.” He stood next to Heather and faced Astrid, then demonstrated.

“I think I get it,” Heather murmured, scanning over the book. “But what about wings? We don’t have them.”

“That _can_ be a bit tricky, but not many words use them and you can just use your shoulders. Here, ‘fly’, just shrug.”

Astrid peered at a strange paragraph on the other page. “What about that bit? It doesn’t have a symbol.”

“Yeah, that’s an example of miscellaneous. Sometimes a word uses something specific.”

She blinked away the last spots from her vision and read the runes, _wet lips and smack lips twice_. “Like this?” Remembering seeing Toothy do that – a lot – she did her best to demonstrate. It felt a little silly to do.

“Yeah, ‘eat’, you got it. Anyway, I wrote this more as a translation guide, so it might be a bit fiddly to work from. This is just an example page, everything else is categorised by the legend. Hmm, how could I write something to _say_ things from…? I’ll have to think about it.”

“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” Heather reassured him.

Astrid was just keen to get started, she’d set her mind on the task and wanted to dive into it. There was also that if she’d been able to talk to Hiccup before… Well, no sense dwelling on it. “Anything else we need to know?”

“Not really,” he said absently, dropping into the chair and rubbing his eyes. “Just start with the body language, it’s enough to get by with. The verbal stuff is… well, if you can work it out on your own we’ll officially induct you into the Ingerman clan.”

She snorted. Like _that_ was going to happen. “Thanks, Fish. We’ll make sure to have the book back to you in a few days.”

“Three, at the latest,” he clarified as he stretched. It was usually a safe assumption that he’d been ears-deep in a book for the last few hours, but that was quite clear today. “Oh, er, Astrid, I don’t think I said this before… but thanks for… helping out when… you know, in the storehouse…”

Astrid grinned at him. “No worries Fishlegs, you’d have done the same. Just take it easy, okay?” She picked up the book and casually waved goodbye as she left, Heather catching up a few moments later.

They found a nice spot overlooking the village, sheltered from the wind and with good light to see by. Learning from books wasn’t Astrid’s favourite method, but sometimes she couldn’t be picky. And there was something different about this… Strategy, battle, Chiefing, these were things that had been refined over generations. Dragonese was new, and it felt raw and untested; this was most evident when they came across words that did not have a translation, just a blank space to be filled in later. It gave her some measure of understanding of why people strove to learn new things, things that nobody else knew. It was also reminiscent of the wild process of figuring out how to live with their dragons.

Learning in itself was normally strenuous and idle work, often boring to boot. Be told or shown something, then repeat it until it sinks in. She found herself enjoying this though, Heather was certainly a character and had her in fits of laughter trying to work out some words and attempting a basic sentence. Not that Astrid was much better at times, particularly when Heather suggested a game of one of them trying to say something and the other trying to guess it.

Astrid felt that if she was going to be Chief, she should speak the language of _all_ her people. Still, as they read and talked she couldn’t help but wonder how it would change her perception of the Furies. They were just so cute and cuddly it was hard to see them as anything else. There was a _slight_ hope they’d fill her in on their secret, but after the talk following the incident… she thought it unlikely. At least she’d be prepared next time something happened.

* * *

“Why you eat that?” Dreamer cocked his head at Wanderer, who was awkwardly munching on some small spiky leaves.

“Smell good. Eat thing if smell good,” he said with a shrug of his wings.

Padding over, Dreamer put his nose to what was left of the small plant, but it just smelled prickly. Certainly not good for eating. “I think you fly with tail bent.”

“Hrrr, I fly better than you fly.”

Dreamer tackled him with a playful roar, going straight for his neck but snapping down on nothing. A tail collided with his left flank and he stumbled, but quickly regained his balance using his own tail and darted aside from the follow-up lunge. It left them side-by-side, and he spun to snap at the exposed neck again.

His friend reared back out of the way, preparing to strike with a flash of teeth–

–

He was on his back with those same teeth pressed gently into his bared throat. Blinking himself out of his daze and fighting down the discomfort in his gut, Dreamer rose to his paws and gingerly gave himself a shake with the wound in his leg aching dully.

He sat and sullenly pawed the ground under the weight of Wanderer’s frustration, evident though he tried to hide it. _Maybe I just need to know more… Get more practice… I’ll talk to him about it when my leg heals_. He half-faked a yawn and rubbed his face with the back of his paw. “Tired. We sleep? Hrrr… I remember you sleep hanging from tail. We do?”

Wanderer warbled and inspected the canopy. “Yes, we do. This good night.”

It was a very good night, Dreamer had to agree, if still a little short. At least they were getting longer again, but then they would probably return to the village before long and would be sleeping through them. It was funny, he’d always loved the quiet and peace of night, the only problem usually being seeing what he was doing which was no longer a problem, but now he did enjoy the warmth of the sun. _I wonder how big we need to get before we can sleep in broad daylight…_

A quiet scuff caught his attention and he realised Wanderer was already halfway up the nearest tree. He rolled his eyes at himself, _still a dreamer_ , and started the climb up. He noticed he had to dig his claws in a lot harder this time, which he found very awkward due to how long they were. Hrrr, he _had_ been neglecting them quite a bit, and even now he was hunting again had only bothered to make sure they were sharp. He’d need to spend some time – no, _go back_ to grinding his claws every day. Had he really been forgetting something so basic? _Stupid_.

Above him, Wanderer scurried out under a thick branch and deftly dropped to hang from his tail. Dreamer was a little unsure if his leg would hold him, but gingerly lowering weight to hang from it he found it to be only uncomfortable, and he stalked out next to him. It was a good spot, high from the ground and protected by a web of branches.

The first and last time he’d tried this, it hadn’t gone well; this time he would do better. He snaked his tail around the branch, feeling its tug on his claws, then took a deep breath… and let go.

Sudden weightlessness was a sensation he was very familiar with, so why was his heart hammering in his chest? He quickly straightened his face when he saw Wanderer’s amused expression, then used his wings to stop his swaying. _I’m going to practice this when you aren’t looking…_

Wanderer swung over to give him a lick on the shoulder, then wrapped himself in a cocoon of wings. Dreamer extended his own wings and inspected them, comparing them to the bundle next to him, and carefully tucked them around himself. He quickly found he could overlap the wrists behind his neck, then leaning his head back into them almost locked them together. He needed to do next to nothing to maintain the position, anyway, other than hold his tail firm so it did not slip off.

Rrmm, this was very comfortable. Wrapped in his own little world, breathing his own scent. Very little of him touching anything else. Swaying gently with the wind. His hearing remained sharp, as it usually did when sleeping somewhere unfamiliar, but he was quickly greeted by the blissful feeling akin to the blinking of an enormous eyelid over his mind as he dozed on and off. He almost slipped off the branch a few times, though only jolted himself awake once, and all too soon he felt the light of the su–… _sky-fire_ warming his back.

It was enough for Wanderer apparently, as Dreamer was distantly aware of rustling and movement on the branch. _Nooo… A little longer…_ Something brushed against the outside of his wings, but he ignored it. _I sleep now… catch up later…_

A light pressure lifting his dangling tail got his attention, and he found the energy to partially unfurl. He eyed Wanderer, who eyed him back expectantly with his paw frozen under the tail still draped over the branch.

“…You not…”

A toothy smile crept across his friend’s face, prompting him to fling himself up and grab hold of the branch in a panic. _Nnggg, so much for more sleeping…_ He groggily blinked his weary eyes and yawned widely, the fog in his mind quickly engulfing the small burst of adrenaline.

This was definitely a not-night to be lazy.

With a second yawn, he climbed up onto the branch and cleaned his face. “We should get water.”

“Yes, water good. We swim also?”

_Sure, why not._ “Yes.”

They flew low through the treetops to the cove and alighted on the soft grass from where they slaked their thirst before slipping into the water. The cold helped to revitalise Dreamer’s mind while they lazily looped around each other in the small and muffled realm.

For the first time on their break from the village, Dreamer allowed himself to think about what had happened to them, to him. The calm water pressing on his ears and gliding over him almost created a divide, a separate world from which he could look back objectively. He didn’t hate or begrudge the woman who had attacked them and almost carved a slice off his thigh, but it had been painful to start thinking about and he’d kept shutting it out despite knowing that was not a good way to deal with things

Probably what had him most shaken out of everything was how shaken Wanderer had been afterwards. Dreamer had long ago promised to be his safe place, and he had been without hesitation, but in this particular matter he felt he needed to be the strong one to support them both through it. This meant he couldn’t retreat to his own safe place, or just shut down, as it would worry his friend and cause a negative loop.

And Wanderer’s… other problem. He’d only said that it was a torturous memory of pain and uncertainty, but Dreamer remembered what had happened. The impact that killed him – or would have – had to have broken Wanderer’s wings and left a horrible mess of them both. He had some quite vivid ideas of the more torturous aspects his friend had alluded to, particularly considering what had happened after taking down their first boar.

In hindsight, this was really what was gnawing at him. Yes, the woman had been cruel, but so had many others in Dreamer’s life and he found himself only pitying her. More than anything he just wanted the chance to show her she was wrong, and to heal the hate in her heart. In everyone’s hearts. He wanted to show everyone that dragons were kind and amazing creatures, _especially_ now that he was one himself, and have everyone living together in peace. And not just on Berk, but the whole Archipelago, and maybe he’d even be able to address whatever’d had Johann so spooked.

But that was all a long way off. Right now he was content with letting the other tribes see how successful Berk could be with just a few dragons, which was perfect as he had a lot of growing to do. Mentally as well, he now knew, he was struggling to think of the other tribes as more than the two or three people he knew from each.

He surfaced for his first breath of air and let himself float on his back, waterlogged wings splayed out to either side. Wanderer went for a more dramatic surfacing, shooting from the water and catching himself in a low hover with that majestic spray pittering down around him. He only hung there for a few flaps before nosediving back into the lake.

Hmm, but there was still damage to Berk that had yet to heal, it seemed. How many others still held hate in their hearts? It had taken months for this woman to act, but why? He winced when he remembered that Dagur had apparently come for the Nightstrikers, some of the village might be blaming them for that. Or… would they? They were Vikings after all, most looked forward to a good fight.

He groaned. There were things about Vikings he still didn’t understand. He couldn’t help but think how eager he’d been to kill a dragon himself, but then he’d more been interested in the result than the action. How ignorant he had been.

Everything he could be doing to show people they were friendly and harmless, he’d been doing, and it wasn’t enough. If only he could _talk_ to people, but Fishlegs would have to translate and they wouldn’t trust it was the dragon talking. They certainly wouldn’t be willing to learn Dragonese first.

So lost in his thoughts he was that he barely had the presence to suck in a breath when Wanderer dropped onto his belly and dragged him under.

_Grrr! I get you for that!_ He twisted upright and surged away, then rolled down into a tight loop. With hard kicks of his tail, fins straining to remain flat, he streaked through the water after the dark shape ahead of him. They weaved and twisted through the lake, struggling to grapple each other’s slippery hide until eventually they dragged themselves from the water and collapsed on the bank.

The sky-fire was just high enough to reach them with its warm light, and they both purred loudly through their panting as it dried and warmed them after being in the cool water for so long. _It would be so easy to give in to this_ , Dreamer thought mildly. _Not a care for the world, fly to some remote land and never look back_ …

It was a wistful dream. He was in a unique position to right many of the wrongs in the world, and he would never be able to stop thinking about what he could have been able to do. Oh well. He could still enjoy these moments in between his quests.

He was dozing off again when Wanderer nudged him. “Hey. We fly to den now.”

Grumbling back at him, Dreamer got to his paws. He would have preferred to sleep in the cozy light… but the cove was known to the village, and a reliable source of water for dragons.

They winged low over the treetops, swooping up and down with the lay of the land, two graceful shadows streaking across the island. It wasn’t a particularly long flight, but they were both tired and weary from spending much of the light swimming and so it dragged on. Finally, the deeply familiar ridges and trees greeted them, and shortly after they swooped down and over their little beach. Dreamer flew directly through the mouth of the cave and alighted inside, immediately lamenting the loss of the warm light.

In moments he was bowled over and his leg accosted; he really should see this coming by now. The wound was now just an angry hot line along his flank, no longer rough and raw, the licking treatment did seem to be helping so he did not begrudge it. Not that licking was unpleasant. In fact…

He reached up to grab Wanderer around the neck and pull him down with him, and they were suddenly a purring tangle of legs, wings, tails, and tongues. The den did not feel so cold then.

* * *

For a long time, hunting had just been something to do when fish became boring. Now that he was hatched again, Wanderer found his thoughts slipping away from the quarry and back to lessons shown to him long ago. How to hide in the shadows, how to move without sound, when to pounce and where to strike. Every action had an echo in his memories.

_Slow breaths, slow life-beats, little hunter._

He watched the tall-land-prey from the shadows as it grazed warily.

_For hunt alone, need patience. But for two, hunt is easier._

An innocuous rustle grabbed the quarry’s attention and it turned away.

_Be silent, know your steps before you walk them._

He eyed the prey as he stalked forwards, slowly, deliberately, seeing pawprints he hadn’t yet made in the grass.

_Closer is better, but try chase before your prey flees. Feel your body when it says chase._

An ear twitched towards him. Strength surged in his legs and he leapt forward without hesitation, raking deeply into the quarry’s leg and shredding its muscles. The prey tried to bound away, but its leg nearly collapsed under it and it stumbled.

_Fastest kill is biting its throat. All prey have weak throats._

The prey couldn’t get up to speed, and he was already running. He threw his wings forward as he hit the ground, then launched himself high and onto its back where he could sink his teeth into its neck, easily shredding through the fur and flesh.

_Dam! I caught you!_

Instead of meeting his dam’s purring laughter and warm embrace, the quarry dropped under him and he tumbled to the ground. Tufts of fur stuck between his teeth, and as he scrambled to his paws he quickly sheathed them and licked his gums clean, then pushed them out again to swiften the prey’s death.

“Good hunt!” Dreamer chirped as he bounded over. “But no chase. Chase good also. Wrrr, not matter. Hungry.”

Wanderer purred and gave him a brief nuzzle, then they set about the task of pulling the fur away to reach the tasty meat under it.

The memories were an itch inside him he could not scratch. His small body was crying out for family, for adult Nightstrikers to shelter and protect it, to nuzzle and care for it. The memories were not painful, and he was very warmed by what he had now… but it was like stepping from the blissfully warm heat of the sky-fire to the moderate warmth of a good den. He was cold by comparison. _Hrr, but I never want life be different._ He and Dreamer were a perfect match, and they would one day find mates and fill their nest with little ones of their own.

He wondered what it was like for Dreamer, who never knew anything resembling a Nightstriker sire or dam, and from what he could gather barely anything resembling a Long-Paw sire or dam either. Perhaps not all his bad thoughts over the last few seasons had been bad Long-Paw thinking… _It will be better for you, for us both_ , he promised.

Sound pricked his ears as his first mouthful slipped down his throat, and he raised his head to listen. At the second wingbeat, he was running for the cover of the nearby foliage where he had been stalking the prey from. He didn’t need to say anything, Dreamer was already running with him.

They darted into the undergrowth, and Wanderer spun to peek out at their catch. He would not risk his life for it, but he was still hungry and wouldn’t just abandon it for no reason. His caution proved warranted as a large Fire-Scale descended with great wingbeats between the trees, then wasted no time in tearing the prey in half and swallowing it.

Dreamer whimpered sadly beside him, but the Fire-Scale was apparently not done. It put its nose to the ground and crept forward a step.

It looked straight at them.

Wanderer spun and ran. He could hear Dreamer right behind him, but thankfully there was no bellow of challenge or the crashing of an ungainly Fire-Scale pulling itself after them. _No, it not do that, they not good runners_ … It would be following from the sky… He turned sharply and sped up, heading for a patch of dense trees they could escape into. He didn’t dare look up, to take his eyes away from the obstacles streaking past him, just kept his ears sharp for any sound of pursuit.

The trees ahead seemed a little sparse, and he angled around what turned out to be a small clearing. The sound of an aborted dive spurred him on.

_Remember … only if need … your cycles now, survive again … small body, no fire._

Wanderer tried to clear his head and focus on his flight from the wing-hunter. _I not need your lesson now, Sire_ … How was this hunter following them? _Stupid_ , he’d been recklessly crashing through the undergrowth like a scared prey-thing. He changed direction again, dropping his speed to a silent lope and hearing Dreamer do the same behind him. He zigzagged a path to safety, and finally hopped into the dense patch of growth that no adult wing-hunter could hope to enter.

They trotted to a halt and stood there on the uneven roots, panting heavily and scanning the specks of sky through the thick canopy. They saw and heard it pass overhead a few times before it gave up and loudly flapped away.

Dreamer gave a frustrated hiss. “It eat your catch.”

“Yes. But not eat us.” He huffed. “It have bad hunting for want hunt us.”

_Huff_. “We could show it nest with much food and no hunger.”

“It take food it see, not promise it not can see.” Wanderer let out a quiet hiss. “Not go near hungry hunter you not can fight.”

Dreamer wilted a little. “That… I see that good thinking…” Wanderer snorted in amusement. How can thinking be seen? Silly Long-Paw expression. “…I still hungry…”

“Yes, I also,” Wanderer grumbled. He was weary and tense from their escape but their bellies were practically empty, they should find a meal before sleeping.

“…Nest with much food and no hunger…?”

Wanderer didn’t flinch at the suggestion, to his own surprise. His Dreamer watched him hopefully, evidently struggling between wanting to return to his nest and considering Wanderer’s own wants. He sighed, they _had_ been out here for over a whole sky-ice-cycle now, and it was only supposed to be a temporary reprieve from the Long-Paws…

“…Yes,” he eventually conceded. “We go back to nest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it's been a productive week. A change to my work hours has also left me with more time and significantly more energy which has helped considerably. I may even be able to post next week, but if not then it will be the last break for now.
> 
> I should also point out that you are running out of time to get your theories in, this part of the arc will soon bust wide open.


	14. Treason

Skirting the northern edge of the fishing grounds, Brenna’s boat easily pulled through the waves. She put up the appearance of fishing, though in reality there was little room in her hold now. Several times one of the despicable dragon riders wheeled overhead, but took no interest in her Hooligan fishing boat on Hooligan waters.

It had been a harrowing month, the journey taking longer than expected due to some bad weather and then spending a few days in a cell. Another storm had created delays on the way back, but for a completely different reason. _Idiots_. Well, they were here now.

The boat went unchallenged on its way to the island, just as planned, and disappeared into the shadows of the channel through it. She quickly swung around to moor against a low outcrop of rock, just low enough to climb up onto.

At a trio of stamps on the deck, activity exploded from the hold.

* * *

_Anyone? Hellooo?_ Dreamer wheeled in the air above Berk, Wanderer wheeling opposite him, and while there were people pointing up at them from below they were yet to spot any of the teens or their dragons. Then again, he supposed Astrid and Fishlegs would be busy with something, and who knew what the twins did with their time.

His stomach grumpily made its displeasure known and he became impatient, so with a sharp bank he angled himself out over the docks to see if any hauls were being brought in. He was surveying the situation below when an enthusiastic shout caught his ears – Barf and Belch had emerged from the forest and were heading for them with a distinctive pair of blonde teens waving from the dragon’s necks. The two heads even looked pleased to see them, grinning and croaking happily as they approached.

Dreamer had to duck out of the way as the three – four? – of them shot through the air he’d previously been occupying, and they all swooped and soared around each other for a few minutes. Until his stomach made another loud complaint, at which point he gnashed his teeth a few times at Tuffnut and they all glided down to the docks.

There was a single burly man carrying in his haul who found himself distracted by Ruffnut while Tuffnut thoughtfully lightened the load of the two barrels he was carrying. He was still none the wiser when he was allowed to proceed. Both Furies bounded forward and snapped up their fish, making short work of them and purring as the ache in their bellies subsided.

“Woar, hungry littel guys,” Ruffnut remarked.

Tuffnut grinned. “Yeah, but little Hiccy’s looking _heaps_ better. In fact…” He pounced at Dreamer, knocking him over and lightly scratching at his belly. “You’re almost tubby now! _Tubby Fury!_ ”

A squeal escaped Dreamer’s throat as he tried to kick away the offending hands that darted for his ticklish spots, somehow sneaking through the dangerous zone of claws and teeth. “Help!” he implored as Wanderer’s head appeared above him.

Wanderer’s response was to give him a toothy grin and start snapping at his frills. Dreamer automatically threw his paws up to bat him away – and was promptly assaulted again by Tuffnut. _Traitor!_ Dreamer screeched manically as he squirmed and thrashed against the dual attack, then managed to throw himself to his paws and dart behind Ruffnut’s legs from where he growled at his attackers.

“Yeahr! That wasn’t fayr!” Ruffnut barked. _Yeah you tell them!_ She looked down at him with a broad grin and lunged at her brother, dropping and pinning him in short order.

Dreamer grinned widely and took his time padding over, sitting down just inside Tuffnut’s field of vision and taking a moment to inspect his claws.

“Oh no, no, not the claws, ahah, nonono, hahaha, help! Help meeee!” He struggled and laughed breathlessly as Ruffnut held him down and Dreamer prodded and raked at his belly, wary of his fragile skin. Wanderer sat off to the side, probably not wanting to get involved now that Ruffnut was in the fray. “Why me…” the teen gasped as the revenge relented.

 _Oh he’s getting some too, don’t worry_... Dreamer casually padded over to the bigger Nightstriker, giving him a purr and a nuzzle. Wanderer was suspicious, but still not quite fast enough to avoid a wet lick up the back of his ear. He yelped and dropped to the ground, pawing at his head and rolling around to a bizarre chorus of human, Fury, and Zippleback laughter.

Dreamer had missed this.

His ears pricked at the telltale thrumming of Meatlug’s wings, but he was immediately distracted by Wanderer tackling him. He was sure to hold his ears firmly against his neck, wriggling and batting so as to not give his attacker a chance to pry one loose.

Fishlegs’ happy shouts as Meatlug landed distracted Wanderer long enough for Dreamer to kick him off and escape, and he took a moment to clean up the soggy mess over his head and neck and give himself a shake.

“Hey,” Fishlegs barked to get his attention after a few Norse words of welcome that Dreamer had chosen not to decipher. “You come? See thing.” He then said something quietly to the twins, who hurried onto Barf and Belch and flew away. Something was _definitely_ strange there…

Dreamer cocked his head curiously at Fishlegs, but he just hopped onto Meatlug and took to the air looking very excited. The two Nightstrikers shared a confused and curious look before leaping up after him. They were led over to the training ring, but Fishlegs didn’t descend into it. Instead, he dropped into a hover next to the cliff a short way above it and beckoned madly, face a wild mix of impatience and excitement.

Slowing into a hover, Dreamer’s eyes went wide and his frills stood out as a shallow indent in the rock became visible, only recently carved judging by some of the rough edges, and just about tall enough for maybe Spitelout to stand in. And then his mouth hung open as he drifted closer and discovered it wasn’t shallow at all, curving into the rock in a way that couldn’t be easily seen from outside. “For us?” he asked incredulously, barely waiting for Fishlegs’ eager nodding before throwing himself inside.

It smelled heavily of rock dust, definitely recently carved out, and distantly of sweat which would be replaced before long. The ground was a strange texture, the roughly hewn rock having been hammered smooth but not yet feeling worn and sealed. He approvingly noted that there was a very gentle incline into the cave so that it would not collect and trap rain.

In the back of the cave there was maybe about enough room for an adult Fury to stretch out without wings or tail touching the walls or being visible from outside. It would be cozy for the two of them fully grown, but that might not be a bad thing and if necessary it could be expanded.

But most of all, it was completely inaccessible except through the air, and most other dragons would have difficulty navigating inside.

It was perfect.

Wanderer evidently thought so as well, as he was busily rubbing his cheek against the edge of the wall at the entrance. After a moment of thought, Dreamer did the same on the other side.

“Sso yoo lai’ it ‘en?” Fishlegs called over Meatlug’s wingbeats. Dreamer responded by bounding excitably in a circle. “’Ood! Ca’ to ‘e ate ohr ah ssar’ow’!”

“…What?” He pawed at an ear.

Fishlegs rolled his eyes. “Come, rock-nest, sky-fire…” He scratched his head, then pointed at the ocean, and Dreamer managed to fill in the blanks – _come to the Great Hall at sundown_.

“Yes,” he chuffed. _Probably a feast or something. Vikings, any excuse to drink and eat_ … _Not that I’m arguing…_

“…His words not get better…” Wanderer mused as the Gronckle flew off.

“No,” Dreamer laughed, before setting about the very important task of rolling around the new den.

It was still a few hours before dusk, but the time passed quickly. They explored every inch of the cave with their noses, stopping occasionally to overwrite an offending scent, then practised flying in and out for the fun of it before spending some time chasing each other around and more rolling about. It all smelled of Nightstriker by the time the sky-fire neared the ocean.

“You Rock-Scale now!” Dreamer laughed.

Wanderer, now a matte grey colour, imparted his offense to this notion with a sharp bite to the ear. “We should clean. Grass or swim?”

“Sweet-grass?” Dreamer chirped jokingly as he licked the side of his paw to rub his hurt ear with. “Hrrr, I think both.”

“Both good,” Wanderer agreed. “Race!”

Dreamer forgot about his ear and scrabbled after him, leaping from the new den and straining to catch up. Nimble though he was, Wanderer was faster in a straight line and easily remained ahead for the flight to the cove. Dreamer dropped straight into the lake, but Wanderer landed in the shallows to keep an eye and ear out for the wild Fire-Scale.

Taking it in turns to keep watch, they had to work the dust off their scales and alternated a few times between the lake and the grass. Dreamer was acutely aware of the sun going down, but the dust was proving resilient. _Grr_ , this was going to be an annoying aspect of the new den for a while, though it was worse on this occasion due to their antics.

After finishing the job for each other and ensuring they were shiny and black again – if somewhat damp – they made their way back to the village with the remnants of the sky-fire visible over the water. Just in time.

Dreamer dropped down in front of the doors of the Great Hall, a subdued murmur of a crowd audible from inside, but was caught off-guard by Wanderer’s cautious hiss. He spun in surprise to see his friend with his eyes narrowed tensely at the structure.

“…I good,” Wanderer growled, “I not can not trust every den…” But the steps he took were uncertain.

Dreamer hopped back and pressed his neck to his friend’s. “No Long-Paw attack us in there. Trust me.”

“I trust you,” Wanderer nuzzled back, then strode forward more confidently. Dreamer gave his wings a few happy shakes before following.

A hushed silence settled over the hall as they entered. The crowd parted for them to approach the slightly raised section that held the Chief’s table, at which his sire was sat in his big chair at the head and the teens down the length of it. _Okaaay_ … _Getting weird_ … Stoick eagerly beckoned them up, and the two Nightstrikers shared a nervous look. Not wanting to prolong this awkward scene, Dreamer flapped over and took his place on the comfortably raised seat at the table with Wanderer joining him a moment later. Astrid looked even more excited than Fishlegs and the twins, who beamed at him.

_Wait… This is…_

“Hooleegahns!” Stoick shouted suddenly, interrupting Dreamer’s thoughts and making Wanderer jump. He then spoke, his great voice easily carrying across the hall while barely as much as being raised. “This is an unusual night, but we live in unusual times. I know this will be hard, Odin knows it was for me, but we need a change of thinking. The days of killing and being killed by dragons are _over_. We’ve lived in peace with them for nearly two years now.

“But it’s clear that _some_ are having trouble letting go of the old ways. Now, we are _Vikings_ , our stubbornness has seen us through some dark times, and I don’t expect you all to suddenly make friends, but if you must distrust and hate then _keep it to yourself_.”

Dreamer took a moment to glance around the hall, easily able to pick out expressions from the light of the fire and torches. Most were pensive, there were a few who wore scowls or frowns but nobody seemed outright rebellious. Not while in a crowd in front of their Chief, anyway.

“I don’t need to remind you all what happened. I like to think none here would repeat that treasonous offense, but it’s clear there must be precautions. Therefore!”

Fishlegs waved to get their attention, then crudely translated the next part into Dragonese.

“I am officially extending hospitality to these two Night Furies as honoured guests for the foreseeable future!”

“Nest need think good you now. Much bad for nest if attack you.”

Dreamer understood the implications. Going against the Chief’s word was treason, but breaking hospitality would reserve a special place in Hel for the offender regardless of the circumstances. He’d never expected that to encompass a dragon though, and the crowd was similarly unsure of how to take it. A murmur of surprise and curiosity was prevalent, but there were undertones of unease and discontent. He managed to temper his own reaction of outright shock to a moderate surprise – silently thanking Fishlegs for thinking to translate as it was said – but was further thrown off as all the teens subtly leaned forward with their elbows out in a show of _welcome_. Even Snotlout, who he’d being ignoring so far, though he held a curiously flat expression.

“Andd nao!” Stoick shouted a little louder than was necessary. “Llet us ffeasst!”

A horde of footsteps announced servers bringing in endless trays of foods, the smells instantly filling the hall and sending both Nightstrikers into uncontrollable drooling. The Chief’s table was of course the first to be served and was piled high with food in short order, and as honoured guests the Nightstrikers had first pick. Which was good because Wanderer wasn’t waiting for _anybody_ to quickly – but still neatly – tear into a whole roast chicken.

The atmosphere quickly transitioned from tense to impatient and then more slowly to jovial as the tables were gradually filled with food and drink. Stoick certainly knew how to deal with Vikings, hit them with some big news and then feed them until they pass out. Hmm, the same probably applied to dragons, come to think of it, but maybe with sweet-grass instead of ale. Dreamer giggled at the vision of an all-dragon feast in which sweet-grass was suddenly brought out for everyone.

“Hey!” came an excited chirp in a much higher voice than Fishlegs’, and both Furies looked up to see Astrid almost ready to explode from excitement. “You have good hunting?”

Dreamer’s ears and frills stood on end while he stared, and it took him a few moments to find his own words. “Yes! We eat much. But not _this_ much.” He gestured to the food in front of him before downing a whole smoked fish.

Astrid bounced in her seat, and Dreamer had little doubt that if there had not been a table full of food in the way she would be all over them. The excitement was contagious and his tail wagged happily. “You go where? We not see you,” she asked.

“We Nightstrikers,” Wanderer huffed, and Astrid and Fishlegs laughed.

“How your leg?” she asked Dreamer in a more serious tone.

It’d been a while since he’d needed to talk like a dragon fledgling. Thankfully he was more practised this time, and spending time in the wild had helped too. “Not hurt now, I fast again!” He bit Wanderer’s ear. “Faster than you!”

Wanderer growled and batted him away. “I stronger than you. Bigger also.” He puffed his chest out proudly.

“I think better.” He stretched his tail around to tickle at Wanderer’s opposite flank, then when he growled at it and batted it away Dreamer pinched the mutton leg he’d been eating. Everyone, including Stoick, burst out laughing. Wanderer looked around at them in confusion, then narrowed his eyes at Dreamer’s toothy grin – oblivious to what was in his claws – and went to return to his dinner. Which was no longer there. Dreamer gave him an innocent look and offered him the bare bone back.

“I get you for this…” he muttered, selecting a rack of ribs to pick apart as everyone continued laughing.

Stealing the food reminded Dreamer of something. “Hungry Fire-Scale on small-land this light, try eat us” he said to Fishlegs, then snorted at seeing his and Astrid’s expressions. “ _Try_ eat us. We fast! But I faster.” Wanderer growled at him and he grinned back.

“What? What happened?” Tuffnut asked.

“Yeahrr, wll sumwun fill us inn hhere?” Ruffnut echoed.

“They were chassed by a Nightmare onn ‘he island,” Astrid explained.

“Hah, yeah, like a Nightmare could catch a Fury,” Tuffnut smirked.

Stoick stroked his enormous beard. “Nightmares arr aggressive, but I’ve never heard of them attakking other dragons.”

“Theyy will if thair hungry enuff, apparenttly,” Fishlegs explained. “They’re normally prtty good huntrrs though, it masst be injured or something.”

“An injurred and aggressive drahgon on the ayland… Can you take care of it?” Stoick rumbled.

“Yessir.”

Dreamer chirped at Fishlegs. “Fire-Scale very hungry. Take much food. Also take rock-head, also his Fire-Scale, maybe help.”

“Rock… Hayy, watt’d yoo corll me!?” Snotlout barked.

Dreamer rolled his eyes and turned – then sat bolt upright. Everyone else gaped at him as well, except for Fishlegs who just winced.

Snotlout himself sat there rigidly while everyone stared at him. “…Yeah, okkay, fair pointt…” he murmured, then took a deep breath. “I… sorry… for… fight… you,” he said awkwardly in Dragonese.

Dreamer stared at him blankly while his mind processed that, the silence of the table emphasising the casual din from the rest of the hall. He eventually managed a small nod, and a grin. Who would have thought? And why? He shot Fishlegs a glance to tell him he would be explaining later, but the teen just shrugged with a confused frown and a shake of his head.

“Well that’ss just _greatt_ ,” Tuffnut’s grumpy voice broke the silence. “Am I the only one who can’t talk to them now?”

“Uhh, no suppraizes here, I can’tt eithrr,” Ruffnut grumbled back at him.

“You don’t count.”

“Yoo _can’tt_ cownt!” They loudly locked helmets but backed down at a warning grunt from Stoick.

“I see you’ve all been very busy,” Stoick rumbled. “Good for you, the more people who can talk to them, the better. Looks like you twins have your work cut out for you.”

Dreamer caught sight of Heather approaching in the corner of his eye and watched her attend the table, refilling drinks and taking orders. No sense of familiarity now, at least no more than from meeting her after the battle with the Berserkers. But then she leaned over the table to take the empty jug by Stoick and he caught a whiff of her scent, that memory tickling his mind again. Now he was more attuned to his senses… he remembered it… among foliage and undergrowth…?

She then turned to him and Wanderer. “You want more food?” she asked primly in Dragonese. _Wait, is everyone a linguist now? What_ happened _while we were gone!?_ He stared at her dumbly while Wanderer asked for some water.

This was going to be much trickier now, he realised, they would have to really watch what they said where others could observe. That meant getting more into the dragon mindset in general – or rather, just staying in it at this point. He gave a little shake to clear his head and eyed the remains on the table. _Actually, some of those ribs would go down really well right now…_

* * *

Astrid was leaned over the table with her head laying on her arm, smiling at the pair of Furies somehow collapsed on top of each other as they dozed. Hiccup’s head was laying across Toothy’s paws, and Toothy’s head was stretched over Hiccup’s neck. Other than that, it was difficult to tell which leg or wing belonged to which Fury.

The hall echoed with the snores of those too stubborn to go home but not stubborn enough to stay awake. A few of the hardcore feasters were still quietly chatting, munching on the dregs of the food trays and draining the last barrel of mead, but mostly it was very peaceful. At the Chief’s table, only she and the Furies remained, though the twins were busy Loki’ing anyone who had fallen asleep. The rest had left.

She really should go home to bed, but she just couldn’t take her eyes off the sight in front of her. She wanted to hug them and squeeze them so badly, but even if she were so bold she wouldn’t be able to bring herself to disturb them. The most she’d done was try to take the bone Toothy was still chewing on, but he’d growled and refused to let go without even opening an eye.

How could _anyone_ want to hurt these precious little creatures? She could see the mark on Hiccup’s leg, healing rapidly but still an angry line that would probably be with him for the rest of his life. Well, that was probably for the best, humans could be very cruel and he would be wise to be reminded of that. Let distrust be his first instinct.

Hiccup shuffled a little, and she melted all over again as one of the wings awkwardly jutting out straightened and wrapped around them both, and contented purring reached her ears. She could just lay here and watch them all night… Oh, she already had, there was a dim glow of sunlight shining in from the front door.

As much as she wanted to just fall asleep there and then she’d rather wake up in her own bed. It did not escape her notice that Toothy’s ears twitched the moment she lifted her head. “Hey,” she whispered to the pair, “come on guys, you should go to bed too.” She gently stroked Hiccup’s head until he stirred and looked at her blearily. _How to say this…?_ “ _You, den_ ,” she said in Dragonese. He’d get the message.

He blinked at her slowly, those huge green eyes so reminiscent of Toothless’, then nudged his brother to something resembling awake. They both yawned widely and dragged themselves to their paws, then stumbled across the table. She grimaced as Hiccup gave her a small lick on the way past, and lethargically tried to wipe it off as they hopped into the air and disappeared behind her. The stuff stuck to her skin like oil, gross.

She pulled herself to her feet with a sigh and staggered to the door, blinking at the early morning light. Just a couple hours’ sleep and she’d be good to go. She was so busy dreaming about her soft, plump pillow that she nearly didn’t see the figure sat on the ledge by the steps from the hall. “Snotlout…?”

Snotlout straightened, but continued staring down into the village; a beautiful sight as it glowed in the dawn. “Oh, hey Astrid.”

…Strange. He’d been strange a lot lately. Pushing her weariness back, she walked over and sat next to him. He looked like Hel had got bored of waiting and decided to come to him instead. “Not that I’m complaining, but you usually have a bit more to say than ‘hey Astrid’.”

“…Yeah. I’m a real jerk aren’t I.” It wasn’t a question.

“Why’d you do it, anyway?”

“I dunno. I was stupid. I don’t even remember why it bugged me so much when he came instead of Toothy, and I just–“

“No, not that.” _That_ was what was on his mind? Usually he barely even thought about things _once_. “Learn Dragonese. It’s not really like you. I’m kind of worried, you’ve been pretty weird lately.”

“…Oh. You want to know why I’m so scared of my dad?”

 _Not really_. Spitelout was merciless, and in some ways she did pity Snotlout for his lot in life, even if he brought the rest of it on himself. “He doesn’t hit you does he?”

“Gods, I wish. Some bruises, I put on a tough guy act for a few days, and it’s back to normal. But no. When I was twelve, I said some really stupid things to Mum. He didn’t get angry with me, didn’t shout or anything. No, what does he do? Makes me learn sewing.”

Astrid couldn’t help but burst out laughing. She had the most ridiculous image in her head of Snotlout fumbling with a needle and threat as Spitelout sternly stood over him.

“Yeah, I laughed too. Like he could make me learn anything, right? But then he learns it himself, and takes it on himself to ‘fix’ my clothes.”

“Wait, was that when you were running around with that third trouser leg? Oh man that was so funny… The twins must have thought it was their birthday.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. But yeah, every time I screw something up, he makes me learn something about it. No shortcuts.” He took a long, deep breath.

This was… a side of Snotlout that Astrid had never seen before. Not vulnerable, but… raw, bare. He was being straightforward with her, and she wasn’t _completely_ repulsed by what she saw. Before she knew what she was doing, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, dropped down to the ground, and began walking home with a wave but not a so much as a glance back.

Snotlout slowly raised a hand to his cheek as he watched her go.

* * *

The village was its usual bustling self, the same as it had been for the last few days. Some people were walking up it, some walking down it, and some were not walking at all. Just like yesterday.

Dreamer idly flicked his tail over the roof he was perched on and watched Wanderer fly low through the streets a few more times to burn off some energy. They’d all but grounded themselves with the aggressive Nightmare still at large, there’d been some sightings but even with Fishlegs, Snotlout and Astrid scouring the island there were just too many places to check. It wouldn’t come near the Viking settlement but it might be tempted if they flew high enough, so their flights were tense and brief rather than the relaxing sojourns they were used to. He groaned. If he was this antsy now, winter was going to be a real trial, especially as they were bigger so would have relatively less room to run around.

He now had a much better understanding of Wanderer’s obsession with eating and growing, at least. It was a strange feeling for himself, strength was often something he had sorely wished for before becoming a Night Fury but assumed he’d never have, and now he would have more than any Viking could ever dream of. All he had to do was eat and wait.

Maybe Wanderer could teach him to fight… but the idea still twisted his stomach. _Tomorrow_ , he promised himself. It was getting a bit late now, he was starting to get sleepy and Wanderer always woke very early.

“We go to den now?” he asked as Wanderer alighted on the roof next to him, panting and tired but still somehow buzzing. Dreamer could relate.

“Hrrr, yes. Still need much scent-making.”

_Not quite what I had in mind, but alright…_

Dreamer fanned out his wings and hopped off the roof, soaring on the breeze that swept up the village, and drifted back towards their den. Wanderer pulled up next to him with what could only be described as an aerial flourish, a sort of half roll that put them at almost exactly wingtip to wingtip before tidily levelling out. Dreamer shot him a glare, receiving an apologetic grin back.

The den was so well hidden he still had trouble picking it out on the approach even after a few days, and he purred as he drifted over the training ring and it came into sight, but a strange noise caught his attention. Something cutting through the air, but in short motions, and repeatedly?

He had no time to think about it, Wanderer barked in alarm and darted to the side. Dreamer reacted without thinking, recognising the response to danger and banking sharply after his friend – then shrieked as something wove tightly around him and pinned a wing to his side. _A bola!_

There might have been time to ponder the how or why on the way down, but he was wildly scanning the ground and planning his landing. He couldn’t afford to land on his wings, and the lessons Wanderer had drilled in long ago were taking hold. He twisted and used his free wing to angle, bracing himself…

Nothing could have fully prepared him for the inevitable impact with the hard rock. His shoulders hit first and shoved his breath from his lungs, and his momentum carried him into the expected roll. What he hadn’t expected was the ropes of the bola painfully digging into the leading edge of his wing, and one of the rounded weights beating against his side. He skidded and bounced to a stop, then sucked in a breath and let out a pained wheeze.

He felt bruised from nose to tail, and his shoulder ached fiercely. He whimpered freely as the pain settled over him, unbearable at first and not in a hurry to abate. At least his shoulder didn’t feel dislocated. He heard a few more bolas drop down around him, and there were voices, hushed shouts he couldn’t make out. They were accented and unfamiliar.

The reality of it hit him. Someone wanted him out of the air and on the ground… which meant that was the last place he currently wanted to be. He struggled against the ropes, trying to figure out how they were wrapped around him so he could work them loose. Heavy footsteps sounded towards him, and he twisted to see – then felt his blood run cold as he stared into the mad eyes of Dagur the Deranged.

 _You! Here! How!? Why!?_ His struggling became frantic and his breaths short and fast. He was all too aware of exactly what Dagur wanted, but the sadistic grin on his face… It pierced him with the horrific reality.

Dagur spared him no courtesies, turning and shouting with gestures up at the sky while he strode over to plant his boot firmly onto Dreamer’s shoulder. He was completely trapped. His panic escalated to a new level and his body locked up. There was no sense in struggling. He completely forgot himself, forgot all reasoning, there was just instinct.

He drew in a deep breath, straining his chest against the ropes and the weight on him, and screeched louder than he’d ever screeched before.

* * *

“Come onnn, where are you?” Astrid scanned the forests below, hoping to catch sight of the elusive Nightmare that had been hanging around the island. It had been seen around the farms for a while, clearly hungry but not willing to approach the eel wards that had been set up.

The buzzing of Meatlug’s wings could just be heard over the breeze as Fishlegs searched to her right, and on the other side of him Hookfang drifted lazily with Snotlout in the saddle. It was an ideal arrangement, if they could hear Meatlug’s wingbeats then they could hear a call if someone found it, and with the Gronckle being the slowest flyer she had the least maximum distance to respond.

But then maybe the wingbeats were scaring the Nightmare off? They hadn’t seen hide nor scale of it, and the last sighting had been nearly two days ago. Another day of searching and they’d have to conclude it’d left the island, unless and until it was sighted again.

And she had to admit… this was _boring_. Flying was amazing and all but they’d been doing the same thing for days now and it was just calm gliding, no stunts or aerial manoeuvres, no speed, no _thrill_. The pleasant calm of the peaceful flight had worn thin very quickly.

She was watching the sun slide towards the horizon when she felt Stormfly tense, her head jerking around with her spines rattling and standing stiff. Astrid didn’t have a chance to ask or wonder, immediately recognising the disconnect between dragon and rider and throwing herself down to hold on for all she was worth.

The turn came close to prying her arms loose, and the saddle creaked but mercifully held firm. She cracked her eyes open to peer back over her shoulder, seeing Hookfang flying just as fervently but falling behind, and Meatlug naught but a speck in the distance. She couldn’t make out Fishlegs, but Snotlout was still on Hookfang – barely.

 _Think, rationalise. Can’t see Meatlug, but Hookfang is reacting the same way, and flying in the same direction. Not after Stormfly, so reacting to the same thing. What could make a dragon react like this? A queen?_ She shuddered at the thought. _Unlikely, they weren’t taken over when we fought the last one. That just leaves… danger. But are we flying towards it, or away from it?_

She peered back again and gulped at that she could no longer see Meatlug. _Towards, definitely towards…_ Hookfang was flying in the same direction, and they weren’t slowing down. _Was I just complaining I was bored? Bored was good, I’d like to go back to being bored._

How long had they been flying like this? Moments. It seemed like they were heading back to the village, and they’d been a fair way out… it would be maybe twice as long again before they arrived. She tried to rub and tap Stormfly’s neck, but her dragon ignored her. She had horrible thoughts of Berk under attack, in flames… but the idea didn’t sit right. Stormfly loved the village, she was sure, but she couldn’t reason what could happen to it for her to act this way.

Unless…

Ice crept down her back as she thought of what Stormfly held closest to her heart and was fiercely protective of, what Astrid herself felt the same towards. _No no no, not again!_ Her will aligned with her dragon’s and they reconnected, Astrid urging her on for all the speed she could muster. It might not have been her imagination that the howling of the wind reached a new pitch.

Blind, she leaned into the turns as she felt Stormfly make them, and so was prepared for a sharp bank left and downwards with wings at an angle to brake against the wind. She was squeezed into the saddle by the rapid deceleration, and then they were in a slow but tense glide.

Astrid pried herself from her dragon’s neck to drink in the scene below her. Six men stood in the viewing area by the training ring, five of them big and burly and surrounding an agitated Barf and Belch, the sixth noticeably smaller and hunched over a dark shape. Fire boiled in her blood, but she forced it aside to analyse. A shrill and panicked cry got her attention, and she snapped her head up to see the other Fury wheeling desperately above the scene.

How long until Hookfang arrived? Soon enough, but she needed to keep them occupied until then. She leaned to bring Stormfly lower, then had her twist in the air and her Nadder automatically followed through with a barrage of spines at the men around the Zippleback. It was quickly followed by a hissing sound and a _whump_ , the men bracing and protecting themselves against the explosion but distracted enough for Stormfly to land on one with a sickening _crunch_. A jet of fire erupted at the nearest survivor, but the initial burn was blocked by a shield to give him time to dive away.

The twins’ dragon was snared in a bola, and Astrid hurriedly dismounted with axe in hand to sever the ropes, then stood in front of the two dragons. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” she shouted.

“Astriiid, good to see you!” an overly cheerful voice called back. _No…_ “Always so _serious_ , straight to the point. It’s been, what, two years? Why don’t we have a drink? It’d be great to catch up!”

She fought down the bile that rose in her throat and stared at Dagur, an axe in one hand and a shield in his other. The Fury under him stared at her pleadingly, struggling feebly against the ropes and the boot on his head. _Keep him talking_ … “Sure, why not? What do you get up to these days?”

“You idiot, she’s distracting you!” came a woman’s hard voice. “Hurry up and get that other demon, and let’s get out of here!” Astrid followed the source of the voice and bristled at seeing the traitor Brenna casually leaning against the rock wall by the path back to the village.

“You do NOT order ME AROUND!” Dagur shrieked at the despicable woman, thrusting his axe at her. “But you have a point. You!” He swung his axe to point it at Astrid. “Get that other Night Fury down here, _now_.”

Astrid bared her teeth at him. “In your _dreams_ you lunatic.”

Dagur’s reply was to grin at her and lower the axe to press the point against Hiccup’s head; twenty paces away and she still heard his fearful whimper. Before she could even think of a plan, a dark shape landed next to her and growled at him. “Huh, I guess you really do control them. But you can keep your magic, an axe always worked better for me HAHA! Take the Fury, kill the rest.”

 _Come ON Snotlout, where are you!?_ A bola whizzed towards Stormfly and Astrid swung her axe at it, slicing through the ropes and sending the weights careening away. A second bola was burned apart, the heat washing over Astrid as the flames passed her, and one of the Zippleback heads intercepted a third with its neck for the ropes to harmlessly wind around.

A stream of fire fell across the Berserkers, three reacting quickly enough but the fourth being bathed in liquid fire and going down in a writhing, screaming heap. Astrid dropped her axe and leapt at the Fury beside her to grab his tail and pull him back, wincing as the rock scraped her arms. Toothy, she now saw, spun and _snarled_ at her, and she saw all his fear and hatred in his eyes. All she could do was fervently shake her head at him.

It bought enough time for Hookfang to spin and unleash another jet of fire. Dagur leapt away, dragging Hiccup with him, but not fast enough to get the Fury out of the way. Astrid didn’t have time to worry or lament as he was bathed in flames, the three remaining Berserkers were back on their feet and approaching swiftly.

She jumped to her feet and became a flurry of hand signals, those of the twins coming to her in the heat of the moment. _Fire at the middle one, a barrier of gas, spines at the one circling on the left, more gas towards the right one_ – she closed her eyes and snapped her fingers, bracing herself against the resulting explosion, then used the moment to retrieve and holster her axe.

The smoke cleared quickly revealing that the Berserkers were not yet out of the fight, but their shields were in bad condition. A wave of her hand had another wall of gas set up, and she held Stormfly’s spines at the ready. She spared a glance at Dagur, struggling to hold on to a burning Fury as he thrashed and flicked globs of Nightmare fire in all directions. Seeing a chance, she signalled to Stormfly and a trio of spines the size of her forearm sang through the air at him, forcing him to leap back out of the way and away from Hiccup.

Hookfang then landed between the two and Snotlout dismounted, brandishing his axe at Dagur with his dragon hissing dangerously over his shoulder.

Astrid clicked her fingers again and took a few steps forward through the resulting inferno, further forcing Dagur’s men back with a swathe of Nadder fire. A glance at Stormfly’s spines showed she had about half left, that was good as she’d need to back Snotlout up against that lunatic. If he’d given Stoick trouble, there was _no way_ Snotlout could hold his own even with Hookfang.

But Dagur was clearly second guessing his position, deep in enemy territory with no backup, dwindling forces, and only so long before more Hooligans and dragons turned up. “ _Fall back!_ ” he screeched, and the four survivors instantly bolted towards the narrow exit from the viewing area. Stormfly automatically fired after the closest, but it was blocked by his shield and didn’t even slow him.

“What!? But you can’t–!” Brenna started, still standing well out of the way of everything, as they rushed past her. There was little hesitation before she spun and followed them.

Astrid hesitated, torn between following and getting Hiccup free – but then Toothy was already chewing at the straps around his brother; the remains of the bola smouldered on the ground. “Come on!” she shouted at Snotlout and took chase, hopping onto Stormfly and launching into the air.

It was hard to tell how much gas Barf had left, being unfamiliar with the dragon, but Stormfly had one shot left at most and maybe only even half a shot. There also wasn’t a guarantee the Berserkers didn’t have any more bolas on them, using them all offensively would be stupid as would be assuming they had. She also didn’t want to get in front of him, as he could turn back for the Furies, but couldn’t split up either or they’d be overrun.

“There’s no way we can stop them or take them!” Snotlout shouted as he pulled up next to her, echoing her own thoughts. “We’ll just have to follow them from above and wait for backup!”

She nodded and watched the invaders flee into the trees, staying directly above them to keep line of sight while Snotlout and the riderless Zippleback circled, both dragons less suited to flying at low speeds. She lost sight of them a few times over the next couple of minutes, but Hookfang and Barf and Belch made small swoops to put her back on course.

And then, suddenly, they all lost them as they passed through a patch of denser trees. Astrid fumed as she made wide circles overhead, but could find no trace of them. It was at this point that Fishlegs joined them, thoroughly confused, but she didn’t let him ask questions. “Berserkers on the island! Attacked the Furies! Saw them go into that thicket but not sure if they’ve left it! Stay here and watch it, follow if you see them but _stay back!_ ” She _had_ to set Stormfly down, the poor dragon was stumbling in the air and breathing heavily. Unlike Hookfang she couldn’t just coast on her wings as much.

“Okay!” Fishlegs squeaked back and peered down at the trees below.

Astrid waved to Snotlout and they glided back, catching sight of a group on their way to the ring. Stoick’s form was unmistakable, he was _exactly_ who she needed to see right now. “Chief!” she called as she pulled Stormfly closer.

“Astrid! What in Thor’s name–“

“Berserkers on the island! Dagur is here!” She landed heavily in front of him. “We followed him into the forest but he lost us, Fishlegs is maintaining position where we last saw them. Here, take Stormfly, she can track him for you.” She dismounted and took a few steps back. “ _You follow?_ ” she asked.

“ _Yes!”_ she said fiercely. _“He hurt Nightstrikers, I–_ “

Astrid wasn’t sure what her dragon said after that, but it looked and sounded _violent_. She put a hand to her snout before sending Barf and Belch back to get the twins, then turned to Snotlout while the party set off. “I’m going to go back and check on the Furies.”

Hookfang snarled and flared his wings. “ _I hunt,_ ” he hissed dangerously.

“Oh no you don’t,” Snotlout shot back, grabbing one of his horns and pulling his head to the side. “We’re making sure he doesn’t loop back around. Come on Astrid!” He beckoned her onto the saddle while his dragon continued to hiss.

They arrived back in the arena to find Heather tending to Hiccup. Well, trying to, Toothy was standing in front of him protectively and growling at her.

“Heather?” Astrid asked as she dropped from the saddle, followed by Snotlout.

Hookfang promptly launched himself back into the air back towards the forest. “OI! Get back here you overgrown lizard!” Snotlout shouted after him, but he was long gone.

“Astrid! These bindings have wire running through them, there’s no way Toothy can get them off but he won’t let me near!”

“Alright, he trusts me, I’ll get it,” she said and strode forward, Snotlout grumbling as he followed. But then her stomach dropped as a scuff sounded behind her and Heather’s expression turned to horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **((ZK-zWTDzebE))**
> 
> "Emperor's"


	15. Treachery

Heather gave a horrified look at the man creeping around the rock, who scowled at her before ducking back out of sight. That should keep everyone occupied for a few moments at least, but she needed to act quickly; the two teens were of a few she had come to call her friends and she didn’t want to see them dead.

“Who’s there?” Astrid shouted as she spun with her axe raised, and Heather turned back to the Fury.

It was tightly bound and had no chance of freeing itself, but the bigger one was standing next to it protectively with those razor-sharp fangs bared at her. “Look, I want to help–“ mid-sentence, she flicked the sand in her left hand at its eyes, at almost the same time her right hand darted forward and jabbed it in the weak point behind the jaw to instantly drop it– “just _trust_ me…”

Breathing a sigh of relief, she rose silently and stalked up behind Astrid, delivering a swift punch to her kidney and a second to the back of her head, then caught her so she didn’t crack her skull open on the rock.

Snotlout heard the attack and skipped to the side, holding his axe defensively. “Traitor!” he growled at her. It hurt, and all the more because it was true. “You could have had _this_. You could have had a _dragon_. Who else could _possibly_ give you more!? _Why_ Heather!?”

Heather wished she could apologise and explain, but she only had one chance. Without words, she quickly shed her boots, tunic, chest bindings, skirt, leggings, and underclothes. Snotlout’s words died in his open mouth and his eyes grew wider and wider until they seemed likely to fall out as she pulled off the last garment and stood completely bare in front of him. She sauntered forward in the chill air, lightly pushed the axe away, and struck him in the throat. He went down in a gasping heap.

“Well well, I see I needn’t have doubted,” purred the man stepping from the shadows as he sheathed his sword. He was tall and of medium build, sported a long and smart moustache, and his cheerful and alert eyes took in the scene.

“Give a girl some privacy,” Heather said flatly as she retrieved her clothes and hurriedly covered herself.

Alvin snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself, you’re a few years shy of anything attractive. Ahh, there they are, my little treasures. I admit I had my doubts when I dropped you on that beach, but you’ve done well.” _Hmph_ , more like tossed her from the boat _near_ the beach. He casually strode towards the two Furies, one unconscious and the other motionless, and wasted no time binding Toothy with a thin rope and stuffing them both into sacks.

“The other things too,” Heather reminded him hopefully. “A book containing all the knowledge this lot have on all dragons, all their strengths and weaknesses, and a second book to learn how to _talk to them_.” She was just blurting out the words by the end.

“Talk to them…” He watched her with his calculating expression, probably imagining all the misdeeds he could achieve. “Where are these books?”

“In the village, but I can get them, I’ll be quick–“

“And you’re certain that… they’re as valuable as you imply?”

“Yes, of course! I–“ She stopped and nearly shrieked in frustration as she walked right into his word trap.

His grin could only be described as ‘charming’, as despicable and vile as it was. “They’re already searching the island, we don’t have time. Luckily, it seems I have my own expert on the subjects…”

She nearly broke down on the spot. He was holding freedom so tantalisingly close, and if she’d just kept her mouth shut instead of trying to bargain for it sooner… “Alright then,” her emotionless shell responded as it jogged after him.

* * *

Dreamer froze as he heard the strike, Wanderer’s minute squeak, and then his impact with the ground. All loud and clear to him, but Astrid had clearly heard none of it. He remained absolutely still and silent as Heather stalked up behind Astrid and dropped her, then… he didn’t have words for the next part.

Even as the newcomer strode back out into the open, Dreamer could only watch Heather. Not because of her nudity, but because his instincts were screaming that she’d just _attacked his nest_ , and that he should be absolutely still and silent. His focus barely changed when the man strode towards him with greed set deep into his eyes. He remained rigid as Wanderer’s nose disappeared from his peripheral with a shuffling sound, but the spell was broken when the stranger reached for him. He squeaked and squirmed, but the bindings held him tightly and he was easily dropped into a sack.

After a few minutes of swinging he began to start thinking clearly again, then immediately lamented not warning Astrid. Any sound to get her attention, and this all could have been avoided. His instincts were useful sometimes – he regretted ignoring the ones about Heather – but _why_ had he obeyed this one?

He whimpered miserably. These straps Dagur had fitted him with were impossible to break or claw through, and held his legs and wings tightly to his body. The Nightmare fire, as hot as it was, had not burned him, but it left his scales feeling dry and they scratched irritably against the sack. _There is also that we’re being kidnapped, but it’s nice to know I have my priorities in order_.

Well, this new man hadn’t hurt them… yet. He tried to focus on where they were going, but everything was muffled by the sack.

His thoughts were back at berating himself for not warning Astrid when he heard Wanderer groan. Dreamer was almost certain he’d also been taken alive, but it was a relief to have that remaining small yet frightening chance eradicated. The groan was followed by increasingly loud growling, and then a pained yelp and a subdued whimper.

Dreamer chirped quietly, enquiringly. _Relief, worry, fear,_ he heard Wanderer croon back. Dreamer tried to reassure him with _strong, patience_ , but no doubt some _fear_ slipped in as well. _Patience, hope, fear,_ came the response.

Eventually, tense and aggressive voices pricked his ears, but the words were muffled and almost drowned out by the sack rasping against his ears. His heart hammered in his chest, burning with hope, he wanted to voice his relief but he was still in the possession of the stranger.

And then, suddenly, he recognised the other voice and ice lanced through his veins.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to set, casting an eerie glow over the sheltered bay and the two boats moored in it. The breeze was firm and the calm waters lapped at the sun-warmed rock, perfect conditions for sailing.

But Dagur had one last gamble before leaving. He and his men hid in the shadows, waiting to pounce on whoever’s boat they had stumbled on while scouting the island. The only reason to have a fishing boat hidden here was for exactly the same reason he was there, and with one dragon bound as it was they would be making their move. If not, there was nothing lost as they needed to wait for sunset to cast off; light enough so as to not attract attention but becoming dark before they drifted suspiciously far.

“Ho there!”

The voice made Dagur jump, and he instantly assumed an aggressive stance towards the source. It took him only a moment to locate the two dark-haired people standing on the steep bank overlooking the bay. “Hello there!” he called back cheerfully, though remained wary. “This other boat is yours?” He approvingly noted that the two sacks held by the man were exactly the right size.

“That’s right. Would you good men mind terribly if we passed? We’re in a hurry, you see.”

“Of course! We’re in a hurry too.”

The man grinned and slid down, and Dagur grinned back as he sped forward with his axe in tow – but then skidded to a stop as the man casually hefted both sacks in one hand and held his sword to them. “Now, I figure we’re both here for the same thing,” he said calmly, “but as you say we are both in a hurry.”

“Then stop talking and give me my Night Furies so we can both leave,” Dagur ordered sternly.

“Hmm, but you see, I am not leaving without them. If you attack me, I will kill them and neither of us win. If I try to take them–“

“I will gut you before you reach your boat.”

“Exactly. We could also stand here bickering to eventually be caught by the Hooligans, then neither of us will escape their dragons. We are at a stalemate.”

Dagur growled. “Live is better but I’ll take their bodies over nothing. Hand them over and I’ll let you live.”

“Patience, my friend, I’m getting there. Neither of us will leave without them. There are two of them. I will leave one here and board my boat while you claim it. You could try to come after mine too, but two fishing vessels fighting will attract attention.”

On one hand, two dead Furies. Oh so stylish, but _boooriiing!_ On the other hand, one live Fury…

“I’ll throw in some information!” the girl shouted before sliding down after the man. “They’re completely flightless without even one of their tail fins. Bind the fins to the tail and it’s a capable and sane but landbound dragon.”

“Oooh, that _is_ interesting,” Dagur mused. He was inclined to believe her, it would be a pointless lie, and the _possibilities_ … “Very well, I accept your terms.” For as long as it took him to gut the man, anyway.

“You and your men back up, these sacks may not look it but they are rather heavy.”

Dagur complied with a scowl, watching the girl climb aboard the boat and prepare it to cast off, but keeping the man in his peripheral. “How do I know there’s a Fury in there, or that it’s alive?” The man responded by holding up and dropping one of the sacks – it squeaked as it hit the rocky ground. “Fine, but hurry up! We don’t have all day. You,” he called back to his men, “prepare the boat as soon as he starts moving.”

The man took a few steps away from the sack on the ground, then slung his own sack some ten paces onto the boat and raced aboard as Dagur raced towards him. When it was clear any fight would be over the water, potentially drawing the attention of the Hooligans as the _frustratingly_ clever man had warned, he growled angrily and went for his own side of the bargain instead.

He yanked open the drawstring, needing to be absolutely certain; the stranger would _pay_ for crossing him regardless of the consequences. A single green eye peeked back at him from a black mass of scales wrapped in familiar bindings “Hello again little Fury,” he cooed, smiling broadly. “We’re going to have so much _fun_ together…”

* * *

With a stern glare, Brenna snatched the rigging away from the Berserker who had been roughly tugging at it. Her husband had made her this boat, and she would give it up when she could meet him in Valhalla. The burly man grunted at her and stepped to the side of the vessel, reaching over and pulling up one of the sacks. She wasn’t sure how she felt about getting just the one, but it was better than the none they’d had earlier. Neither was free, that was the main thing.

Dagur vaulted onto the deck and did a double-take at her. “What are YOU doing here!?” he shrieked, the boat sliding away from its mooring a moment later.

“ _My_ boat,” she reminded him. “And I can’t go back now. I got you what you wanted, consider it an offering… I ask for admission into the Berserker tribe, to simply work my boat.”

“ _Half_ of what I wanted,” he growled back at her. “And you’re right! You CAN’T go back, CAN you? HAHAHA! You’re a traitor! Oooh the _look_ Astrid gave you…” He giggled madly. ”Alright then, welcome aboard!”

He spun his bizarre axe, and Brenna blinked. One moment it was in his hands, the next it was gone. She looked down. Oh, there it was. “I _despise_ traitors,” he snarled in her face. She coughed weakly as he wrenched the blade free, and then sky filled her sight as she fell over the railing and into the water.

* * *

_Pain_. It pulsed through Astrid’s head as she slowly regained consciousness, the only thing she was aware of. “Who… what happened…?” she asked automatically, her own voice sounding distant.

A light tapping noise needled at her eardrums, and she managed to crack an eye open to see the wrinkled form of Gothi holding a bowl of water for her. She shakily took it and sipped, nearly gagging at the unexpectedly bitter liquid, then grimaced at it and made to give it back. The old woman’s stern expression and raised staff made her think twice.

After choking down the horrible mixture she slowly took in her surroundings. All manner of strange things lined the walls of the open hut, even more mysterious in the flickering firelight, and Gothi had turned to Snotlout who was struggling through wheezing breaths.

_Heather._

She jumped to her feet, ignoring the pain, and took a single step into the night before Gothi’s staff descended firmly on her shoulder. “ _Please_ ,” she implored as she turned back, “people are in danger, it’s really important!”

The old woman used her staff to tug Astrid down to her, then held aloft a small torch and stared into each of her eyes with a thoughtful expression. She waved a thin hand, then clicked her fingers. Seemingly satisfied, she turned back to Snotlout.

Astrid took that as permission and bolted from the hut to stand at the top of the narrow staircase behind it. _This is going to hurt…_ She raised her fingers to her mouth and whistled through them, scrunching her brow as the sound pierced her head and rang in her ears.

The seconds dragged by, but eventually Stormfly appeared out of the darkness and landed on the wide platform at the front of the hut. Astrid started to run to her, but stopped as her dragon hissed and tilted her head to inspect her. “ _You hurt,_ ” she said before sniffing at her face.

“ _Nightstrikers!_ ” Astrid said frantically, wishing she knew more words but hoping her tone would convey meaning as Fishlegs said it often did.

It certainly did in this case, Stormfly practically threw herself under Astrid to get her into the saddle and they sped through the dark sky to the training ring. There was no reply to the Nadder’s worried calls. “Take me back to Stoick, girl!” She leaned on the saddle and they cruised over the forest, then let her dragon take the lead.

 _Oh gods_ , Brenna had been with them! How late was it? Stoick would be looking for Berserkers on the island, or a Berserker ship in the water, how could she have forgotten to mention that!? Nobody would think twice about another fishing boat with the Berk crest. But Dagur had retreated… _Heather_ had been the one to knock her out, and apparently Snotlout as well. Of _course_ she’d been after the Furies, why hadn’t they thought of that!? Only her frantic focus on her task kept her from shrieking in frustration. Was the girl in league with Dagur? Maybe he had looped back around. _Oh gods_ please _let the Furies be safe_ …

In the darkness Astrid couldn’t help vividly imagining Dagur’s cruelty, and tried to occupy herself with scanning the ground for torches. Not that she expected any to be carried, but it was better than despairing.

Astrid breathed a tiny sigh of relief when Stormfly suddenly descended, and she called out for Stoick.

“Astrid?” her Chief’s voice boomed. “What happened?”

“ _It was Heather_ ,” she blurted out, her voice breaking, as she dropped from the saddle and practically threw herself at him. “She knocked us out and I think she took the Furies!” She didn’t even try to stop the tears, fighting to stay lucid and get words out between sobs. “I think she’s with Dagur, and Brenna’s with them! H-h-how long was I out? They’ll be on her boat!”

“ _Odin’s soiled breeches,_ ” Stoick swore. “He’s led us on a wild chase here. You lot, get back to the village! Astrid, can you take me back?”

“I… I think so.” She turned to her Nadder and stroked her head. “Sorry girl, I know you’re tired. I’ll make it up to you, promise.” Stormfly chittered and affectionately nibbled her hair, then lowered to the ground to allow them both to mount. It was always a little awkward with Stoick due to how far back the saddle was, but they managed.

“Yeh should know something, lass,” Stoick said solemnly as Stormfly laboured into the air. “We… found the Nightmare you’ve been looking for, we think. Looks like Dagur found it first, a few days ago.”

Her heart went out to the poor dragon, but there wasn’t much room to feel for it. She was too stricken by the kidnapping of the Furies. “Heather must have been working with Dagur. They showed up at the same time and with the same goal, and she was his backup plan. Or maybe she was just getting information on them. How could we be so _blind!?_ We didn’t even think…”

“No, we didn’t,” Stoick said reassuringly. “We thought of them as people, and not valuable _things_. You didn’t know any better, but I… I should have.”

She turned in the saddle to look back at him, and for a moment she truly saw him in the moonlight. He looked utterly _broken_ , a man clinging to the last shreds of hope but expecting to lose. It was only a moment, then she was looking at his calm and collected mask.

Astrid collected herself and nodded at him, building her own mask of calm control and affixing it to her face. As Stormfly struggled through the air they coldly and logically planned the search, and then backup plans. Anything to keep hope alive.

* * *

It was cramped. It was dark. It was stuffy. Wanderer did not much care for this not-skin-thing he had been put in. The weird movements of the ground weren’t helping either. One of the floating Long-Paw tree-things, he guessed.

He was not bound by the same things that had held Dreamer at least, these did not have hard metal inside them. They were tough, but they were thin and his claws were sharp. He just needed to keep working at them, though it would be a _lot_ faster with a better angle…

The not-skin that encased him was picked up again. More distant sounds became audible, so he’d presumably been taken out of the belly of the tree-thing, but then there was very little light peeking through the not-skin so it must still be night. His heart rose hopefully and he gave another enquiring chirp… the lack of response slowly weighed him back down.

Distant sound muted again and pricks of warm light reached his eyes, then much light as the not-skin opened. He growled at the long paw that reached in even as he flinched away from it, but he had nowhere to retreat to and was easily grabbed by his tail and pulled into the open.

Wildly scanning in his surroundings, the first thing he saw was that Dreamer was absent. There was no scent of him here and no evidence of a second not-skin-thing. He was dismayed they were separated, but could hope Dreamer’s fate was better. He would just need to focus on his own situation for now and worry about it later. The second thing was the tall Long-Paw standing in front of him, which he noticed right before it roughly grabbed his head.

He didn’t know what was happening, somehow the touch alone _stung_ at his scales and made the muscles crawl under his hide. Thrashing madly only achieved a few pathetic flops around the raised surface he was on, but then the torturous contact ended. Something felt different around his head, the bindings were less narrow and painful but much firmer. He experimentally rubbed them against the tree-surface he was on and then against his shoulder, but couldn’t even get them to budge.

His growl cut off when he recognised the bad name that Dreamer had given him. How did this Long-Paw know that? _No-teeth_ … Hrrr, his teeth were still sheathed. Maybe he would find a use for that later. He just wished his gums weren’t pressed so tightly together, they were getting sore.

The Long-Paw examined him, and he warily examined it back. It smelled heavily of itself, but tree-smoke, dirt and bracken were prevalent too. It was tall, had tidy head-fur and face-fur, and though its limbs were hidden under long not-skins it held itself with a lithe strength. This was a dangerous Long-Paw, even more so by the calm greed in its eyes.

It was joined by a second, shorter Long-Paw with an oversized chin and thick face-fur standing out sideways from under its nose. It smelled of itself only. Maybe also of salt, but then everything smelled of salt. As it chattered Wanderer noted that its teeth were not blunt and useless like other Long-Paws’, but were pointy and sharp. Perhaps a more aggressive breed, though it spoke in _fear_ and _submission_.

He growled at them again. He didn’t expect it to faze them, and indeed it didn’t, he was just demonstrating his defiance. The greedy one leaned in and hummed something back at him in such sick happiness it could have been a purr. He hissed at its words.

It smiled at him in the Long-Paw way – though to Wanderer it seemed closer to baring its teeth – and pranced out of the small space, leaving him with the sharp-tooth Long-Paw which looked very unhappy and uncertain about something. He growled at it again and its uncertainty grew. It felt good. The Long-Paw hesitantly reached out to him, the paw held with intent to grab. He waited patiently until it nearly touched him, then lunged at it – of course he could barely move, his legs were bound to his body and his mouth was bound shut, but the Long-Paw startled backwards and nearly tripped over. He chuckled as he watched it collect itself.

It huffed at him and strode forward more confidently, though this time it rearranged something outside of his sight before reaching for him again. There was only a small flinch as he lunged a second time, even with an added growl, and then its touch had his senses screaming at him again.

The noise in his head was _deafening_ , but eventually subsided as the contact reduced to a firm pressure on his shoulders, and he panted as his mind cleared a bit. Enough to realise the bindings around him had changed, one of his forelegs had been released. _Patience_ …

_Hear your body when it says chase…_

The Long-Paw leaned, then the foreleg that was not pinning him drifted overhead. He lashed out and sunk his claws into it, the Long-Paw’s own instinctive jerk back did the damage for him and elicited a hiss of pain, though it did not let him go as he’d hoped. _Hrrff. At least it knows I can hurt it_.

It growled something at him and slid him to an angle he could not see it properly, then weight settled most of the way down his back but disappeared from his neck. He struggled again, however pointless it was; his scales felt like they were crawling around his hide, and its _vile_ breath felt toxic against his back.

To this point he’d been defiant and confident, determined to show these nest-thieves that he would not be cowed. The sight of the short, fat Long-Paw claw that drifted in front of his face instantly drained his confidence. A deep chill swept up his body and paralysed him as it hovered there, and the weight on him shifted again.

His freed paw was grabbed and pulled forward.

_No…_

He fought his frozen body to struggle, but there was too much weight on him and he was otherwise still bound. The squared point of the claw rested on the tree-surface and his paw was dragged towards it, but he yanked it back. There was no satisfaction from the cuts it caused in the process. His leg was grabbed again, the grip now resilient to his frantic tugging, and pulled forward. _NO!_

_Chunk_

The tug on his claw was _excruciating_ , and he screeched in outrage and pain.

_Chunk_

He _strained_ at his bindings and beat his head and tail against his captor to no effect, hissing and growling madly.

_Chunk_

The grip on his leg loosened and he wrenched it back, tucking it under his chest, but it was quickly pried out again and angled further to the side. He was suddenly less worried about his paw when the Long-Paw claw pivoted closer to his face, and he pulled his head back as far as the pin would allow.

_Chunk_

His leg was released and it darted back under him, feeling so very _wrong wrong WRONG_ without the sharp and familiar lengths at the end. He hunched up around the paw – as much as the pin allowed – and couldn’t suppress a whimper, feeling helpless. This was somehow worse than losing his fire, and he even still had claws left!

…

 _NONONONONO_ his thoughts screamed as he thrashed and struggled anew.

* * *

_Stupid day_ … It was a _miserable_ day, _nothing_ was right in the world and everything seemed dark and gloomy. The morning had absolutely _no right_ to be this sunny and cheerful.

Astrid sat on a rock in the cove and stared blankly at her axe. Her reflection stared blankly back at her. She needed to be awake, but the dragons needed to recover and she didn’t trust herself to let them rest, so she’d come here. “What would you have done?” she asked the ghost of the boy from long ago. His resolve, that _determination_ he’d possessed, he’d be out there scouring–… No, that wasn’t his style. He’d _want_ do something stupid, Astrid would tell him to calm down, and then he’d _think_. He’d come up with an amazing plan and see it through, then keep fighting until the end; whether that be for his entire village, or a single black dragon.

She really wished Hiccup was here right now. Either of them. _Both_ of them. She’d lost them both, and couldn’t help feeling responsible. It had been _her_ job to assess Heather, and she’d failed miserably at it regardless of how much Stoick reassured her.

The wingbeats were initially dismissed as her imagination – but unlike all the other times they became louder, closer, until Stormfly landed on the grass in front of her looking tense but much more refreshed. Astrid holstered her axe and vaulted into the saddle, feeling the renewed strength of her friend, and they leapt into the air to assemble the other riders.

She hadn’t slept, but she’d rested enough to remain alert and spent the rest of the night gathering information. Talking to more seasoned sailors for estimates on the boat’s range through the night, getting an exact heading for Berserk and what path a ship there might take, and what paths it might take should it want to go unnoticed.

It wasn’t quite a Hiccup plan, but it was a _plan_.

* * *

Heather had wanted to avoid the dragon as much as possible, but she had no excuse when Alvin told her to feed his ‘toothless’ beast. Why was he so hung up on that anyway? It didn’t even matter that she’d told him its teeth were retractable.

She went below deck to retrieve a fish from the stores. It was surprisingly roomy, though that there was only the three of them was part of it, with Alvin steering the ship and Savage manning most of the rigging with a bit of help from herself.

Below deck was split into three compartments – the main area where two beds lined one wall and provisions lined the other, the walled-off stern of the ship which was Alvin’s quarters, and the walled-off prow which served whatever it needed to. In this case, a small black dragon. She tugged on the bolt and pulled the door open, then took a moment to light a lamp fixed securely to the wall. The meagre flame lit the room enough to see the dark lump on the table.

Not wanting to tempt it, she quickly and carefully set the fish down next to it and went to leave… but then remembered water. Alvin did not take it well when a job was half-done. She huffed and returned to the main hold – locking the door behind her – to retrieve a bowl and half-fill it with water. She re-entered the room to find the fish still there, but now there were two slit green eyes watching her.

Eyeing the dragon warily, she set the bowl down next to it; its wide base prevented it from tipping from the ship’s movements. The dragon put its nose to the bowl. _Eh eh eh eh_ came a sound from its throat, then it snorted in a way that sounded a lot like ‘ _stupid’_. She narrowed her eyes at it – then saw the tight binding around its head, clamping its mouth shut.

“How was I supposed to know?” she snapped at it illogically, but then furrowed her brow at the problem. Alvin had told her to _feed_ it, not to just give it food. She groaned. How was she going to do this? She was pretty sure it would bite her hand off given the chance. It had bitten through thicker bones than hers.

She inspected the dragon, not completely bound as it was before and holding itself in a tight bundle. Its paws were not visible, but she trusted Savage to have trimmed the claws as he had claimed; the _hilarious_ number of scratches he had incurred in the process had probably ensured he’d been thorough. The end of a metal manacle was visible from under its wing, so it was almost certainly attached to the table; she inspected a second, empty manacle next to it and was confident the dragon was secured.

So that just left freeing its mouth without letting it bite her. Easy enough. She slowly reached forward, ignoring the growl, then tugged a little slack through the clasp and quickly stepped back. The dragon looked at her blankly, then tried its mouth, finding a little more room than before, and quickly pried the muzzle off. It snapped up the fish and lapped at the water, moving quickly but not desperately, and she left before it could finish.

Let Alvin muzzle it again. She needed to spend as much time above deck while she still could.

* * *

_If the gods weren’t laughing before, then they are now_ , Dreamer thought wryly as he inspected his bindings for the umpteenth time. _Dagur’s back to playing ‘dragon hunter’ with me_. He snorted. _Probably going to be about as dangerous, too_. He cut off the thought that he _still_ had scars from those games, because of course now he did not.

He wasn’t overly worried right now. Sure, he was separated from Wanderer, in a cramped cage, on a Berserker longship, surrounded by people who wanted to hunt him for his skin and skull, and headed for Berserk, but they hadn’t beheaded and skinned him _yet_. Dagur was an impatient person so that spoke of some sort of plan, and if Dreamer was good at anything – at least before becoming a Nightstriker – he was good at derailing plans. Maybe not quite as good as the twins, but then he’d never really been trying before.

And that was assuming he didn’t get rescued first. That would be nice.

It would have been better if he’d caught some of the conversation that had led to him being handed to Dagur though, then he’d have a better idea of what was going on. Stupid Norse words, why were they so difficult to hear with these ears? Surely better ears should make it _easier_ to hear? _Of course not, only everything_ else _is easier to hear_.

 _I miss Wanderer_ , he whined to himself. They’d never been apart for longer than a night until now, and this was day two with no reunion in sight. Hopefully his friend would be okay, they’d been taken alive so his captor probably intended to keep him that way.

“Shar’ iii’,” one of the rowing Berserkers growled and reached back to rap on his cage. _Yeah well you get tied up for two days with no food or water and see how well you take it_. He was parched and starving but didn’t feel weak from it yet, probably because he hadn’t really been able to move much in that time. He would need to eat and drink soon though. While he was on the topic, he was also cramped, stiff, bored, and itchy.

Had they forgotten he had needs? Or did they just not intend to meet them? Hmm, it might be better to force their hand earlier rather than waiting until he _really_ needed sustenance. What did a dragon do when it was hungry? Had he ever seen a dragon hungry? Well, when Wanderer had been stranded in the cove of course, but he’d been bigger and been getting _something_. He thought about it for a while but couldn’t come to any conclusion.

 _Stupid, I’m overthinking this_. The hunger, the thirst, focus on them… _So hungry_ … When had he last eaten? Mmrrr, it’d been some fish from the docks, fresh and still wet, before that last stint of flying. _Nnggg_ , flying, he might even take that over food right now. No, that would only make him more hungry. Go for food. Dripping wet fish, fresh from the water, just enough to wet his tongue too.

The more he focused on it the more unbearable it became. Maybe he’d been a little closer to starvation than he’d thought. He groaned pitifully, attracting the attention of the Berserker again, but he ignored it. The noise of iron rapping against the cage was nothing compared to the void in his stomach.

Dagur’s growling voice said something unintelligible, but he remained motionless and limp. Something poked him, and he resisted the urge to try to claw at it. Dagur shrieking; at him or the Berserker, he didn’t know.

“Ssort it ou’ hen whe stop forr ‘he naitt,” and then footsteps leading away. _Really!?_ It was barely noon. If he really _had_ been dying of thirst… Well, that _was_ why he’d played it up a bit.

… _Nnggg, but that means I need to keep this up for the rest of the day…_

* * *

The ground rocked left. The ground rocked right. Wanderer sighed. The ground rocked left. It rocked left again! That was interesting. Then it rocked right.

There wasn’t anything else going on, and he was bored of sleeping. His hindleg was bound in metal that he could not bite through and attached to the tree-surface, preventing him from doing more than walking in a tight circle. Which felt _very_ weird and wrong with such short and blunt claws. He growled and began licking them again for comfort.

It was almost a relief when the greedy Long-Paw entered the small room. Now that it had broken the monotony, it could go away again. Of course it didn’t, even when Wanderer growled at it, just began clicking and humming in Long-Paw speech. He tried to focus on the sounds, separate them into words, but it was a very alien language and he could barely tell one sound from the next.

They had not bound his mouth again, which was good, but the meals and water were sparse. At least that meant he hadn’t needed to foul the room yet; hopefully this tree-thing would finish its hilariously slow journey before then, if he could not escape sooner.

He didn’t bother blustering at the Long-Paw like a Fire-Scale, didn’t even hunch his wings. He knew he was not the one in control. Even if he somehow killed this Long-Paw right now he would still be stuck here, so he regarded it calmly, patiently.

It continued chattering haughtily, leaning on the table and splaying out the long toes on its paw. If he reached, he could probably have bitten the wrist… but settled for swiping at the paw instead. The Long-Paw was fast, but Wanderer still grazed it with his useless claws. It laughed at him and resumed chattering.

Through its tone and body language he could tell this Long-Paw didn’t want to kill him. It spoke very possessively of him, in a sort of muted aggression that often went with greed; it wanted to _break_ him, tame him and make him its own. _It can try_. He had many more cycles under his wings than he looked.

The Long-Paw stopped chattering to look at him thoughtfully, stroking the long fur on its face, while Wanderer gave it a blank expression back. It tentatively reached forward, which he growled at but made no aggressive move towards. Seeming to come to some sort of decision or conclusion, the Long-Paw reached over him to pin him by his shoulder. _A quick lunge, taste its blood, break its bones, do it do it DO IT_ , but he resisted the urge. Especially when it started fiddling with the metal around his hindleg.

Wanderer went very still. The den-mouth was still open just a crack, enough to see the light of the Sky-Fire through. The paw held him down in a firm pin, but that could be easily fixed, even if he missed his lunge it would need to let go and he would be free. _Patience_ … He couldn’t help the energy and tension surging in his muscles as the paw pressed a little more firmly onto his shoulder.

_Click_

He surrendered to the impulse and moved with all the speed of a hungry Nightstriker. His muscles snapped into action, twisting him to bring his head around to the limb pinning him. His teeth snapped out as he moved, needle points ready to rend flesh and splinter bone, and his powerful jaws clamped down with all the strength he could muster.

_Crack_

* * *

A high note rang through the boat, an unholy shriek that pierced Heather’s ears and needled down her spine. She hugged her legs tightly with her elbows, clasping her hands over her head and trying not to imagine what was going on inside the room at the prow.

The sound only lasted a few moments before dying off, and Alvin swiftly exited the room shortly after. He spared her a smug look as he pulled up his sleeves to remove a pair of metal bracers, then tossed them into a chest and climbed the ladder back up to the deck. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together.

She felt like she was going to throw up. Alvin was a cruel man and had hurt and killed a _lot_ of people, much of which Heather had helped him do in some way or another, but this was like… torturing a child. However much she told herself it was just a dragon, that she had no choice, it was just too much for her to bear. She wanted to run, to huddle in a corner at the back of the boat, but below deck was Alvin’s locked quarters and if she so much as poked her head above deck it would be removed from her shoulders.

But she couldn’t do _nothing_ either. With a fearful tension she crept to the door at the front of the ship and slowly slid the bolt; quietly, as if she were trespassing. It took a minute to collect herself enough to nudge the door open and step inside.

Alvin had left the lamp lit – unlikely it was an oversight, as usual his prediction of her was spot-on – which illuminated an empty table. Her heart hammered in her chest, but right now she didn’t really care what the dragon did to her. The door closed behind her.

A pair of green eyes stared from the corner of the room, what was the very prow of the ship, tinged with red and holding a feral defiance. Her gaze lowered to the floor, and the eyes bored through her a little longer before they curled into the bundle of shadow and disappeared.

There was a thin trail of blood leading to it from the table, and she again had to fight the urge to be sick. She retrieved its empty water bowl, trying not to look too closely at the lumpy red pool on the table, and left the room.

She hesitated after taking the dragon’s ration from the food stores. She couldn’t afford to show it compassion, couldn’t bring herself to make the choices that would inevitably come… but she wasn’t exactly going to be eating today herself, and however calm it tried to appear the thing was obviously very hungry. She took her own ration out as well.

After ladling some water from the barrel into the bowl she re-entered the room to find the dragon exactly where she’d left it, watching her again with those accusing eyes, and set the water and both fish down about a pace away from it. Then she returned to the main hold, bolted the door behind her, and curled up on her bed again to pretend that everything was okay.

* * *

It was some time before the greedy Long-Paw returned, long enough for the pain in Wanderer’s mouth to simmer down to a dull ache. It was tempting to go for its leg, but right now he would do more damage to himself than it. No fire, blunt claws, and now blunt teeth. Wrr, he still had a few fangs, but they were too scattered and mostly too far back to be of any use.

He was also deeply afraid of what else the Long-Paws might take from him. Such as his wings or tail.

The Long-Paw strode towards him and picked him up by the scruff of his neck to drop him back onto the tree-surface, clicking and humming as it went. He may not have fought, but he still growled; he wasn’t broken yet, and the touch still seemed to worm its way under his hide.

As he was shaking himself free of the horrid sensation, a paw closed around his tail. He spun and snarled at it, while there was little point in fighting it was _not_ going to ground him, not while he drew breath. The paw didn’t move, so he slashed it with his blunted claws–

He groggily blinked his eyes open with a groan, the tender spot behind his jaw aching fiercely. _What happened…?_ Wrr, he hadn’t even seen the Long-Paw move; it was _fast_. He growled and stretched his neck, then the rest of him – his tail fins! They weren’t working! He whipped his tail around in a panic, then groaned in relief at finding them only bound.

The Long-Paw clicked at him cheerily and beckoned, walking out of the den-mouth… and leaving it open. Cautiously, he followed it out into a larger room full of Long-Paw clutter in time to see the Long-Paw disappear through a hole in the roof.

The air was heavy with the scent of the female Long-Paw, it was here somewhere though he could not see or hear it. _Hrff, it_ should _hide from me._ The smell of food was too tempting to pass up and he followed his nose up onto a big round thing, but it was sealed and impenetrable. Dejectedly, he dropped back to the floor.

Light streamed from the hole in the roof, the likes of which he had not seen for what felt like an eternity. He was a creature of the night and did not need the sky-fire… but he stared in awe as it reminded him of soaring with its warm light pressing comfortably over his back. _Free_ … He shook his head and sceptically eyed the grid of branches leading up to it, then experimentally hooked his paws over one. It seemed to work, though he was barely able to reach for the next branch and it was an awkward climb to the top.

Fresh, salty air caressed his face as his head emerged. It was bliss. The two Long-Paws watched him cautiously, but didn’t seem to mind him there and only showed a moderate tension when he hurried to the side of the tree-thing to relieve himself over the edge. As tempting as it was to foul whatever he could of this fledgling-thief, he didn’t know how long he himself would be stuck here. And as he looked around, he confirmed it would be a while – there wasn’t a scrap of land in sight. Even if his tail fins weren’t bound he would have trouble swimming anywhere, and in his current state he might even have trouble _flying_ to land depending on how far away it was.

He eyed the tree jutting from the middle of the floating-tree-thing, then jumped down from the side and tried to climb it. His claws were far too blunt and kept slipping off, but the act seemed to comfort the aching nubs. He kept scratching at it until they became too sensitive to continue. Perhaps it would work on his teeth too, but they were still too tender to try.

Sighing, he padded away to hop onto the edge furthest from both Long-Paws and spread out in the light. He’d been allowed a small measure of freedom… but he was still very much trapped.

* * *

The light of the fourth day graced the sky through the bars of Dreamer’s cage. He’d spent the first day cowering, the second day sarcastic and bitter about everything, the third day a strange mix between the two, and now… nothing. He felt hollow, drained. Almost like he didn’t really care what happened next, as long as _something_ happened. Being stuck in this tiny cage was slowly driving him mad. Distantly, he worried that he was getting a little delirious.

Though he had to commend the Berserkers, they only stopped rowing when the wind moved them too fast for it to help and for the few hours they’d stopped for the second night. At least they had let him out to stretch his legs and wings – chained to a tree, of course – to give him a few fish and some water. They hadn’t re-bound him either, though the cage was still stifling. With the speed they were moving they must have been nearing Berserk by now, he assumed that’s where they were going anyway.

His thoughts were running pointless circles around Wanderer and Heather at mid-morning when a shout announced his suspicions. Pressing his head to the top of his cage, he could just about make out the mountain of Berserk in the distance; not nearly as impressive as Berk’s but still tall and sheer. Suddenly, he _did_ feel something – dread. As much as he loathed this cage and this boat, he feared what reaching their destination would bring.

With a quiet whimper, he shrank to the back of his cage. He wished Wanderer was with him… then immediately felt guilty for wanting this fate on his friend, which then made him want comforting _more_ … He was deep in a downward spiral when they inevitably bumped against the docks.

Dagur himself grabbed his cage and hauled him off the boat, then paraded him through the village. Occasionally he would hold the cage high in the air and shout incoherently, and Dreamer had to cover his ears at the loud roars he received in response. All the while, the tension and anxiety and _fear_ welled in his empty stomach, and before long he didn’t bother dropping his paws from his head and just sobbed.

_Just get it over with…_

He jumped when his cage was dropped onto a hard surface, and rank smells accosted his nose. A leatherworker. He went very, _very_ still, barely daring to breathe. Trying to make out Dagur’s crazed words was pointless, but something told him he didn’t want to know.

The touch on his tail stabbed at his senses, and without thinking he spun with a snarl and snapped at the offending hand. He felt a primal satisfaction at the speed with which it withdrew, though the cage was then lifted and _slammed_ back onto the table.

Dazed, he felt his tail pulled through the bars and firmly held down. With a horrible sinking feeling, he hunched over and clenched his fins in tightly, flinching at the snipping and snapping sounds that seemed to prick at his spine and waiting in anguish for the inevitable pain… but it never came. After a few minutes he was released, the end of his tail feeling tight but not hurting, and he whipped it back into the cage before they could change their minds.

He fearfully brought it to his gaze, then slumped in relief at finding it bound in strips of leather that wound tightly around the fins, and a little further up to wedge between the small blades on the sides of his tail. A few prods with a claw confirmed it to be the same as before, embedded with strong wire to prevent it from being bitten or clawed apart. Unlike before there were no clasps or knots, only hard fixtures. It would not be easy to remove.

But this was actually somewhat promising… There was no point in doing this if they were just going to kill him. The fact that they had bound his fins instead of cutting them implied some plan as well… but then again, Dagur was a madman, it was foolish to try to analyse him and make assumptions.

Dagur carried him past the edge of the village, no longer showing him off, then across a field and to the treeline. He knew the forest covered the centre of the island, ringed by fields and then villages that dotted the coast. _So what was he…?_

The door to the cage swung open.

Dreamer suddenly didn’t want to leave the cage. The cage was good, he was protected by its thick bars, and if they wanted him in a cage then they didn’t want him dead. The forest looked far too dark and exposed, and was full of all sorts of unknowns. He didn’t move.

He shrieked as the cage was upended and shaken until he fell out. Panic gripping at his chest, he scrabbled to his paws and darted into the trees, spurred on by eager and malicious promises that followed him into the shaded forest.


	16. Crucible

Wanderer panted in the warm light with his stomach growling noisily. It was nearing the second night since he’d been allowed outside, but it had soon been made clear that he would need to return to his dark little room if he wanted food or water. Doing so would almost certainly result in being locked back in there, so he stubbornly refused.

The dehydration was taking its toll though, and every so often the submissive male would casually chase him around the ship. It had been a fun game to start with, but slowly became an excruciating trial of endurance.

Was this really worth it? The next time he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep ahead, even at the leisurely pace his pursuer made. He knew he would end up down there one way or another. Being caught would mean being touched again. Going down himself would mean submitting. Neither option was acceptable.

But those were the only options. Wrrr, he supposed he could also drown himself, but he didn’t consider that one of his choices. So he could fight, or submit. Put that way he certainly knew which he’d rather do, but when fighting ended with the same result but in a less pleasant way…

He took a long breath. If he could tolerate neither option, and there were no others, he should simply take the least degrading choice. From there it was an easy decision that going in on his own power was better than being dragged, as it still implied that he had a measure of control. That it was his decision. Being dragged down said the choice had been made for him.

Hrrr, but he was going to make the most of this while he had it, his parched throat could be grounded.

It wasn’t long before Long-Paw shouts lifted his ears. They sounded anxious. Good that he was inconveniencing them, but perhaps not good for him. Steps on the hard floor of the tree-thing. _Already…?_ He whined, not quite ready to give up his freedom. No… he would never be ready, he realised, but it was either that or have it taken from him.

He dropped from his perch on the side of the floating-tree-thing before he could be cornered, then wearily led the Long-Paw around.

_Just go down…_

No! He wouldn’t give up his freedom.

_Go down, drink…_

He wanted water… but bitter anger rose in his chest at the sight of the hole into the belly of the tree-thing.

_Give up, rest…_

_I_ NOT _giving up!_ He growled at himself, then felt that _vile_ touch brush his back and leaped forward in a stumble. His legs wobbled, and his wings and tail were dragging. This was it. Fight or submit.

 _What would Dreamer do…?_ He hadn’t really thought about it before. Dreamer would probably pretend to comply, then escape at the first chance presented to him. Pretend. He could do that…

He dragged himself to the hole, grimacing at the stuffy air drifting out of it. After a moment of thought, he looked straight at the Long-Paw following him and stuck his tongue out at it; it felt like something else Dreamer would do. The surprised look it gave him was well worth it, and he grinned to himself as he dropped down into the darkness. Maybe… this wouldn’t be too bad.

He managed to slow his fall with his wings, but landed awkwardly without his tail fins to angle him properly and his legs then crumpled under him in their exhaustion, so he still hit the ground quite hard. After picking himself back up he went and stood in front of the mouth to his little room, but did not go inside. There was no point if he was not given water, something else he would not have been able to control had he fought until the end.

The Long-Paw, having followed him down, seemed to understand and retrieved a fish and some water. Wanderer swallowed heavily, then moved to the side and beckoned for it to pass. It did so without fuss, and emerged from the room a moment later with its paws empty.

As he entered he was half expecting to have to lick the water from the floor, but it was still contained in the thing sat neatly on the tree-surface next to the fish. He clambered up and guzzled it down greedily, only mildly disappointed at hearing the den-mouth close behind him.

* * *

The forest of Berserk concealed a large lake, Dreamer knew, but it wasn’t until late into the night that he found it. He bounded forward to dunk his head under the surface, and gulped down the cool and only slightly murky water.

He only stopped when he started to feel bloated, then sat back with a sigh of relief and looked around. The lake was very still in the low light, though the reflections of the dimly lit clouds were a bit scattered. That was a quirk of his eyes though, not the lake. It was ringed by trees, more closely in some areas than others, and… that was about it really.

An aerial view would be much more helpful, but without either of his tail fins he had no hope of flying anywhere. After catching a few rabbits – three of them, all slow, fat, and very tasty – and now quenching his thirst, he was able to devote more of his attention to his predicament.

Pushing away his weariness, he dropped onto his side and brought his tail up to his forepaws to inspect the bindings around the fins. They were uncomfortably tight, now going numb, and there was no chance of slipping them off. There were stitches down either side of each leather strip, but only for strength and probably to hold the two wires in place, picking them would not free him. It wasn’t all a single length, but the joins were metal rivets that he couldn’t even get a claw under. It smelled as disgusting as any leather, at least with this nose, but he thought he caught a hint of Monstrous Nightmare undertones so it was likely fire resistant too.

He groaned. The Berserkers were dragon hunters, this must be some bright idea to bind their quarry for when they captured instead of killed. Leather, especially dragon leather, would stand up to most fire, and the wire was impervious to claws and teeth. The way it was attached to him also left no one point of failure, he’d need to break through at least three, maybe four places to remove it. They were very practiced at this.

 _Focus_. The rivets were quite an odd design, and upon reflection probably weren’t quite rivets. There had been no hammering involved, though by wedging the tip of a claw underneath the strap he could definitely feel a flat metal base to match the rounded head on the top. Perhaps they were more like nails, one hollow for the other one to press in to. Regardless, he had little chance of popping any of them without tools. And hands.

The heads of the not-rivets were wide enough to encompass the wire, so he’d not only need to work it through the leather but also work the wire out far enough from each side to get it around the metal head. Actually, he only needed to pick out one side to twist it out. _Grrr_ , if he could breathe fire the stitching wouldn’t be a problem, but with only his claws it would be difficult and slow work. There were three of these rivets over his tail fins that would need to go to at least let him fly, the remaining two could be taken care of once he was well away from here.

 _Groan_. He would start later, sleep was _definitely_ the next task on the agenda. As tempting as it was to fall asleep right there, he was far too exposed near the lake and so pulled himself to his paws with a yawn and trudged back into the forest.

Shelter… He needed to remember he was in Berserker territory, and everything that implied; not that it was difficult with how the forest reeked of them. If he’d thought things were dangerous on Berk then he had been naïve, a momentary lapse in judgement and… He whined, it was painful to think about, but forgetting would make it reality. _Focus, need shelter_ …

He wandered the forest for a while, occasionally stumbling over his paws. He could almost believe he was back on Berk, the vegetation and climate were similar – if a bit warmer here – though there were few trails other than rabbits and humans, and the land was not quite as jagged. Thinking about it, he had not seen a single cave yet.

The world began to spin. He couldn’t go on anymore, having been awake for far too long. _No, can’t just drop here_ … He picked up his drooping head, wings, and tail, and gave himself a shake. _Maybe I could climb the mountain, they’d have trouble reaching me up there_. But it was too far away right now.

…It presented an obvious solution though, and he groaned for not thinking of it earlier. It was easy to forget how bad human senses were compared to his own. He _willed_ himself on, summoning the dregs of his reserves, and clawed his way up the nearest tree. He didn’t feel comfortable hanging from his tail while this exhausted, and it would stand out, but he was confident that draping himself over some branches near the trunk would make him just another silhouette in the canopy even during the light.

Though a flicker of consciousness remained to monitor the surrounding sounds, he finally allowed himself to succumb to sleep.

* * *

The floating-tree-thing moved in a new way, one that Wanderer was surprisingly familiar with. It was like gliding into a swift landing – or a crash, he supposed – onto loose sand or wet grass, and sliding along it. The sensation of careless floating being replaced by the strict lateral movement of ground. The loud crunching noise directly below him was further proof.

Wherever they had been going, they had arrived.

He didn’t know whether they would come for him, but stretched with a yawn and hopped down from the flat-tree-thing. He’d found chewing the legs of the tree-surface helped alleviate the lingering aches in his jaws, and did so again just in case the next place he was taken to did not have something as suitable.

The greedy Long-Paw entered the room shortly after, carrying the hollow not-skin and a length of bindings. The female followed it and closed the door, while the male hit some rocks together to light the smelly metal thing on the wall and chattered casually.

The male then looked at Wanderer expectantly, but the female was still trying to talk to it, and it sternly snapped something back. If only he could understand these stupid words, he might find something to use. Dreamer would know what to do…

Wanderer shook his head, Dreamer wasn’t here so he could only use what he had, and while he didn't understand it there was clearly some tension between these two. He buried the observation to paw through later. 

Slumping, the female turned to him. "You come, you good," she pointed to the bindings, "you not come," she pointed at the hollow-not-skin.

Another choice. Fight, and be shoved into the cramped and stuffy not-skin, or submit and stretch his legs, maybe learn more about where he was.

Wanderer growled at them, but didn't move. He would much rather fight with everything he had, but without fire, claws, or teeth, that was only his mind and his will. Which should he exercise here?

 _Hsss_ , he didn't like it, but resisted the urge to bite the paw as the binding was laid over his head and tightened behind his frills. He was not submitting as long as he remained strong in his mind, and sustaining further debility from resisting would only make it more difficult to act on any chances.

The greedy Long-Paw made a _pleased, amused_ sound, then led him out of the floating-tree-thing and back into the light. He was ready to resist at the slightest tug of the binding, show he would not be cowed, but he was left with ample slack as he clambered up the grid of branches, then trudged off the floating-tree-thing and through a small Long-Paw nest.

It smelled dirty, and looked it too. Many of the Long-Paws had sharp pointy teeth like the submissive one, who was now nowhere to be seen. Many had blunt teeth, and perhaps half of those looked worn and broken and paid him no attention. The other half, and all the sharp-teeths, looked at him in an uncomfortable mix of awe, curiosity, and wild glee.

He shied a little from the interest, but tried to ignore them to focus on recognising where he was. He had visited much of this cluster of small-lands under the control of the queen, and likely this one as well if there were Long-Paws here as their nests were the best source of the land-prey she preferred. It was difficult with such a low and limited perspective, and there were a lot of small-lands, so he could only keep looking for some sort of distinctive landmark that he could recognise from the ground. The jagged rock formations narrowed it down at least.

He didn’t know how fast the floating-tree-thing had been moving much of the time, but it had been moving a little east of north. The direction wasn’t the problem, it was that there was a large expanse of sea with no land in sight that he’d need to fly around, and that meant knowing more accurately where he was.

The female Long-Paw gave him a strange look, one of pride, hope, relief, but also pity and regret. Even now it didn’t know who it was. He pointedly locked eyes with it until it looked away again. _Weak_ , he thought at it.

After a moment of talking, the two Long-Paws began walking in different directions. Hrrr, the greedy one held the binding so he was clearly meant to follow that one. It led him through a den-mouth, though a pointless one as there was no den on the other side to stop anyone just flying over, then through some caves, and finally into a circular rock-hole not dissimilar to the one at Dreamer’s nest. Though, this one still had the web of metal over the top of it.

He didn’t like it. He had good memories of the one at Dreamer’s nest, but some bad ones too. One where they had locked the fragile Dreamer inside with a Fire-Scale, and another where the rock-head had feebly tried to make him do something before attacking Dreamer. But that Long-Paw was barely a fledgling, this one was experienced and tricky in a very bad way.

Given that they had deprived him of his claws and teeth, it seemed unlikely they wanted him to fight a Fire-Scale. The possibility that left was not any more appealing.

* * *

The sound of footsteps loudly bumbling their way through the forest was not enough to rouse Dreamer from sleep. Not the first time, or the second, or the tenth. They were still prowling-steps, not hunting-steps, and so he remained asleep. What eventually woke him was his belly demanding food.

 _How long was I out…?_ He groaned as he extracted himself from the branches to stand on them, his muscles very sore and stiff. Slowly, he stretched out – then hissed in pain, the twitch of the muscles in his tail burning through the numbness and reminding him how _tightly_ the fins were clamped. Food could wait, he needed to address this _now_.

He first tried to work some drool between the leather and his scales to alleviate the chafing, doing his very best to keep the stitching dry. Next he tried to work a claw under the strips, but could not alleviate any of the agonising pressure. It was with a grim resignation he eventually set to work picking the stitches, though the threads were thick, coated in something like wax, and bit deep into the leather, so his progress was slow.

While he worked he checked his internal compass and looked for the sky-fire… finding it setting on the other side of the sky. Apparently he’d slept away half the night and then most of the light. Well, he would be better off moving around in the dark. Probably.

The thread finally frayed and snapped – it had taken almost half an hour – and he felt a brief moment of hope. However, the thread then refused to be pulled through the leather. _What’s this stuff_ made _of?_ It was like the ultimate anti-dragon binding. Which was the point, but still, they must spend an awfully long time making it. Which meant he would need to spend a correspondingly long time dismantling it.

He whimpered at how little progress he’d made by the time the sky-fire set, not even half of the way through the first set of stitching. He then needed to work the not-rivet through the leather, and there were two more after that. It was difficult to resist the urge to just bite until the bindings came off, or his tail did.

A thought struck him and he prodded the end of the tail, feeling the sharp tip of his claw and some measure of relief. It wasn’t tight enough to cut off the blood, he knew that was a very bad thing if left too long. Wait, could it still be too tight? He wasn’t human anymore. It was unlikely it would turn purple… he couldn’t even _see_ purple. Well, it was coming off as soon as he could manage it either way, he’d find out then. As long as he still had sensation he should be okay.

With how long this would take, he might as well address the easier ache. He hopped out of the tree – then shrieked as he flipped over backwards, his tail whipping through the air instead of pressing against it. Somehow he managed to right himself enough to land heavily on his tail and paws, grimacing at the pain in the still-healing wound on his leg. _That was stupid_. He gave himself a shake, then began sniffing at the ground for something to eat.

The rabbits infested this forest like a plague, so he would not be left wanting for food at least. He guessed the Berserkers wouldn’t be particularly interested in valiantly hunting down the critters, though the image was quite amusing.

He quickly found his own scent in the rotting leaves, and then a second time but stronger. Apparently this was the path he’d taken towards the lake, and then followed back while looking for shelter. He must have been very tired to do that without realising, it was a good thing he didn’t follow it all the way back to the Berserker village.

Well, he figured he might as well orient himself by returning to the lake and followed his own overlapping trails, noting the scents of the local wolves following them as well. Sleeping in trees was _definitely_ the way to go if wolves were hunting him.

He stopped, confused. Both his trails ended abruptly. _All_ the trails did, other than the ever-prevalent blanket-scent of leather boots and humans. It took him a few moments to recognise that the ground had been disturbed, though it was well camouflaged. _But why would…_ His eyes widened and he hastily scrabbled backwards, remembering being shown this type of trap long ago. Buried and well hidden, a bit of pressure and steel jaws snapped from the ground to ensnare the unfortunate victim. It would not do him well to be caught in one of those.

Two more were sniffed out on his way back to the lake, and a poorly concealed net trap with the mechanism obviously showing on a nearby tree. Well, obvious to him, but he knew what it was. He considered dismantling it for parts, but he’d need somewhere safe to stash them first and it was probably better to let them think he had not come this way.

Darkness was deeply set over the land by the time he reached the water. After taking another drink he cautiously followed a rabbit trail and dug up the warren, easily filling his belly; he wasn’t confident in a chase anymore, not while he knew there were traps.

With one ache fixed, he picked out a nice tall tree to roost in and nestled himself into its branches to return to painstakingly relieving the other.

* * *

Heather eyed the small, sightless Nadder warily as she cut the limp vegetables. It had always bothered her, but now that she knew what a Deadly Nadder was _supposed_ to look like it was even more apparently abnormal. It wasn’t actually blind, but its eyes were glazed and blank in an unseeing way and it didn’t react to anything going on around it, just sat there and stared forward. It gave her the chills.

She forced her focus back to the task at hand – preparing a meal for her mother. It was something she’d desperately wanted to do since starting to learn, and even the poor quality of ingredients wasn’t souring the moment. Nothing grew on Outcast Island, so everything they had was stolen or blackmailed for and would spend days on a boat before reaching the port.

But it was more of a staging ground than an actual home. Outcasts had no home, they lived on the sea and in the shadows. Some lucky few did get to stay in a village, having their brand cut off or scarred beyond recognition then planted similarly to how Heather had been. Threat of exposure kept them as reliable thieves and spies.

“Dear? You were telling me about your friend.”

“Right. Sorry.” Heather smiled over her shoulder at her mother, who looked a lot older than she should. This place was not good for her.

She left out the parts about the dragons and just described the personalities of the five teens as she worked and served, particularly Astrid, then what it had been like working in the kitchen. This simple soup was a far cry from what she had been making there, but it turned out to be palatable.

Talking with her mother, she could forget everything else. At this table she was _normal_ , and she could temporarily escape the hell that was her life. At least, she forgot until Alvin let himself in and ‘requested’ her assistance.

* * *

Dreamer jolted awake as something impacted with his wing, scoring the surface but harmlessly deflecting away. His eyes snapped open and instantly assessed Dagur drawing another arrow while a medium-built guard watched with interest, that was all he saw in the glimpse he allowed himself before leaping from the tree. He awkwardly swooped to the ground, landing tail-first and slamming onto his chest, but thankfully he had had the foresight to get a paw under his chin so he wasn’t too dazed to shove himself away. The next arrow skipped off the ground where he’d just landed.

Heart pounding, his fatigue instantly forgotten, he sprinted through the forest at a tangent to the path to the lake, tail twitching for balance. He needed to find a new area to roam, somewhere far from this one. Perhaps the other side–

Sound behind him prompted him to glance back, and his thoughts fled as he saw Dagur _right behind him_ , bounding through the trees and moving more like an animal than a human. Dreamer surged forward with his breath hissing through his mouth, keeping in mind his hunts of the much faster rabbits on Berk and so keeping to as straight a line as possible.

Seeing only trees with a second glance back, he slowed to a moderate lope. _Okay… His endurance isn’t as good, but what was with that speed!?_ If he allowed himself to be taken by surprise, Dagur would probably catch him.

He continued at a brisk trot for what was probably about a third of the way around the lake, well away from where Dagur had been hunting him, and slowed to a stop. The beating of his pulse was heavy in his ears, but he pushed it down and tuned it out to focus on the sounds of the forest. Just the rustling of trees and the chattering of birds. He was still uneasy, but there was _no way_ Dagur could move that fast without making noise; it wasn’t a matter of skill, human bodies just weren’t built for it.

Even still, when he climbed a tall and sturdy tree – it was still early during the light, he’d not had much sleep – he kept watch until his pulse and breathing had slowed, and finally the gripping fear of being hunted began to abate.

He tried to ignore the deep ache in the bottom of his chest, but it was _so painful_. To distract himself he settled himself into the crook of two branches and swung his tail up… but just stared at the one popped not-rivet blankly, the pain rising up his chest until it stung his eyes and nose.

 _I not want to be alone here_ … Hunching in on himself, he pawed at his face and whimpered himself back to sleep.

* * *

Mere hours after the chase, Dreamer was again roused by the hum of an arrow cutting through the air, then yanked to full alertness by a sharp impact in his shoulder. His thoughts fled as liquid agony leaked into his blood, as if his veins were being shredded, and the torturous pain escalated and spread until he snapped into unconsciousness.

* * *

“You, get this, from there,” the female Long-Paw said, setting a small tree-thing down on the ground and then pointing with a paw to a hollow-tree-thing. The greedy Long-Paw watched impassively with a fish in its hand.

Wanderer gave them both a flat look, but his gaze kept going back to the fish. _I just need survive next cold-season…_ He inspected the small tree-thing. A bit smaller than his ear, it had clearly been cut from a tree or branch with some purpose in mind but he couldn’t work out what. And how could he fetch it from over there if it was here? Crazy Long-Paw thinking. Wrrr, he’d work it out. He padded over to the hollow-tree-thing, finding it full of other small-tree-things. _Huff_. He put his nose to work, but they were all cut from the same type of tree, perhaps even the same tree. Maybe the shape was important? They were all somewhat different.

No, he was overthinking this. He walked around the hollow-tree-thing and pushed it with his nose towards the two Long-Paws, to the greedy one’s tempered laughter. On one wind, he did not like doing what this Long-Paw wanted. On another wind, he was _very_ hungry… and the Long-Paw promptly produced a second fish and tossed them both across the rock-hole. Wanderer was careful not to show his hunger or impatience as he padded over and gulped them down, but couldn’t help giving a quiet and brief purr as the fierce ache in his belly subsided.

He gave up trying to decipher their chatter and dismissed them with a flick of his tail; whether they recognised the gesture or not was irrelevant. As they left, he reflected on the attitudes they showed towards each other, and connected the female’s hunted demeaner to this greedy one. He tried to imagine what Dreamer might do in this situation.

 _Dreamer_ … He _sorely_ missed his friend-mate and the comfort they gave each other, and desperately hoped they would see each other again. Dropping onto his side and resting his head on his tail, he let himself drown in the sadness that was heavy in his blood. It hurt in his body as much as in his mind, but compared to his current situation… it was a comforting hurt.

* * *

Dreamer woke in fits of blinding agony, flashes of consciousness in which he could do little more than groan, whimper, and suffer. The fits gradually became less severe until he could remain awake, though his breaths were sharp and his body tense as he grit his teeth through the pain throughout his body, which was slower in abating.

Eventually he became aware of other things. The cage he was in. Norse words, though not what they were. The mixed and laden smells of a village. Occasionally Dagur would peer through the bars, grin maniacally, and disappear again.

He tried to move his rigid and stiff muscles, stretch them, get his blood moving. Maybe it would help to disperse the… well, he supposed it was poison of some kind. He growled, why let him go only to catch him again? Dagur really was just playing dragon hunter. Despicable brute.

His tail lashed angrily, painfully cracking through its stiffness. He didn’t care, pushing through it to crane his neck to inspect his wound. It didn’t appear all that deep, just enough for the tip of the arrow to pierce through his hide. He made to see if he could reach it to lick, but the smell burned his nose and bubbled in his muscles; that might not be a good idea.

“Yurr up! HA! Knue yood mekk it.” Dreamer spun and _snarled_ at the sudden voice, pressing his nose to the bars of the cage. Dagur practically had his own nose to the bars, but didn’t even flinch. “Yehs! S’ow me yoor _faiht!_ ” His expression flicked to bored. “But savfe it for latur.”

The cage was lifted, Dreamer continuing to growl while the sounds and smells of the village faded and those of the forest neared. Again the cage was set down on the ground and the door opened. He shot out and lunged at Dagur, his claws and teeth _aching_ for blood, but his quarry just twisted and dodged and laughed as he moved.

Dreamer slashed wildly, hissing and snarling, until Dagur suddenly _shrieked_ something at him and pointed at the forest. The fight left him abruptly and he backed up a few paces. What was he _doing?_ There was no way he could fight Dagur. Something… something was wrong.

He hissed at Dagur a last time and sprinted for the trees, then followed his original path – taking a few shortcuts – back to the lake. He remained wary of traps along the way, but it was difficult to remain focused; his thoughts kept drifting back to gutting Dagur and eating his heart.

Finally, the trees opened up in front of him and the shimmering surface of the lake came into view, and he sprinted forward to gulp down the cool water – then promptly threw it all back up. Grimacing, he tried again a little more slowly, then inspected the wound above his shoulder again. After some thought he sat in the shallows so that he could reach up with his hind paw.

He splashed the wound and rubbed it to clear the blood away, and then inspected it again. Grrr, that had been a poisoned arrow, he needed to clean it properly. Growling, he dragged a claw through the wound to clear out the clot, then rinsed it and repeated. It didn’t hurt, strangely, at least not more than it did already.

Satisfied, he licked the wound clean until it stopped bleeding. At some point the throbbing had been replaced with only the lacerating pain of the cut, so that had probably been a good move. It didn’t smell or taste foul anymore either, which was a relief.

Between the poison no longer trickling into his blood and the water in his belly, he felt a little less tense. Even further after relieving himself. The desire to attack and kill slowly dissipated, replaced with a nauseous regret for the thoughts. He had to fight down the urge to sick up the water again.

 _I should eat something_ … He didn’t really have a reason behind the thought other than it felt right. The water sloshing around his empty stomach was only part of it. _Wait… empty?_ It was now evening, but he’d hunted right before sleeping; he’d been out of it for at least a whole day.

Groaning, he began trotting around the lake, away from where Dagur apparently resided and in the opposite direction as last time. Again about a third of the way around, and with darkness now creeping over the island, he put his nose to the ground and began hunting. There didn’t seem to be any traps around here, which was good as it allowed him to chase his catch and burn off the lingering effects of the poison. He was faster than the rabbits on this island, and simply ran one down without even trying to sneak up on it.

As he pounced and dug his claws into its fur, he had to admit he took more feral joy in the kill than usual. A lot more. He was sure to give it a merciful death at least, distantly hoping the poison would fully wear off soon. He couldn’t think straight like this.

The second rabbit that disappeared down his gullet provided something closer to his usual thrill of the hunt, which was good. He should be back to normal in no time, all that was left was to sleep it off.

He looked around at the muted colours of the land. He was a _lot_ harder to see at night, so maybe it was safer to sleep with that camouflage and move around during the day when he was more alert. He picked out a tall tree with good branches and clawed his way up it, now both his shoulder _and_ his leg painful under the strain.

Despite recently being out for a full day, despite his tension, his abating but still present aggression, when he nestled into the crook of a forked branch he found himself quickly drifting into sleep.

* * *

Nine – or maybe ten – souls tried to find comfort in each other in the training ring, five teens leaning against their dragons in silence. They had taken to the ring early in the morning with the intention of training, but even the dragons were moping. Stormfly in particular.

Stoick was throwing himself at maintaining and building up the village, though with none of his usual fire or enthusiasm.

A week. It had been a week since the Furies had been taken. A week since Berk had failed the legacy of the hero it had also failed.

“Guys,” Ruffnut’s voice cracked the rigid silence. “We need to do something.”

“We _did_ something,” Snotlout mumbled. “We did a lot. It didn’t work. They’re still gone.”

“No, I mean, we can’t just sit here moping.”

“Watch me,” Tuffnut shot back.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about! We’re _better_ than this. If we’re not moving on, then we need to move up. Or step up, or whatever.” She locked eyes with Astrid with the grim resolve of someone who was about to reach into a dragon’s maw to stab it through the roof of its mouth. “What would _Hiccup_ do?”

That lit a fire under Astrid so fast she startled Stormfly as she leapt to her feet, then stared with her jaw muscles bulging and a fierceness her eyes had forgotten. Ruffnut did not wither at the malice directed at her.

The staring contest ended with Astrid taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders. “She’s right,” she said quietly but firmly, “we’re not done yet. Since when have we not fought with everything we had, right to the last? We faced hardships with the dragon raids, and we’re still here. We faced down the dragon queen, and we’re still here. We faced a Berserker army five times that of ours, and _we’re still here_.” Her voice slowly gained volume and determination as she went on. “Until it’s confirmed, there’s still hope. We need to be ready to act on the smallest lead, the faintest clue.

“And if it comes to the worst… then we grieve, and then we move on. Because that’s what we do. Because we’re _Vikings_. Because we’re… _Dragon Riders!_ ”

There were no cheers… but the fire had spread to the nine other faces.

* * *

Wanderer knew the flight by now. He even sort of looked forward to it, in a despicable way, because he had very little else to do. The two Long-Paws would come to him, there’d be a brief argument, then the greedy one would tell him to do something while the female translated.

The tasks varied. Sometimes it was as simple as to move to places they pointed at a pawful of times, sometimes as complex as moving small objects in incomprehensible ways which occasionally took him a few tries to get right. All the while he observed and learned, beginning to make some sense of their language.

Though they said a lot with their bodies, it was apparently not real words. Of their actual words, they weren’t consistent in how they were said either, so he’d only picked up a few; ‘come’, ‘go there’, and ‘I want that thing’ he more or less had down. Not very useful, but it was a start, and something to build on. He’d already known ‘fish’, ‘food’, and ‘it’s time to eat food’, which were mentioned occasionally as well, accompanied by a command.

“Hear,” the female Long-Paw said, and pointed at the greedy one.

“ _Come_ ,” said the greedy one with its click and hum.

Wanderer looked blankly between them, giving no indication that he was learning; let them underestimate him, whatever advantage he could get. “What?” he asked, then had to stifle a grin as they bickered between each other.

“You, here,” the female said, and he dutifully trotted over only to be sent away again in the same way. He was surprised to be tossed a piece of fish – but only a piece of one. Hrrr, but he hadn’t needed to do as much for it. He still didn’t like it, this was incomprehensible Long-Paw thinking, he had no idea what it could accomplish… and that only made him more uneasy.

The male then tossed something – another small-tree-thing by the sound of it striking the stone – to the other side of the rock-hole, then said “ _I-want-that_.”

 _If you want it, why you throw it?_ He cocked his head at the female again.

“You get that,” she said tensely, and he unhurriedly padded over to obey. It was looking like the female was unsuccessfully trying to get the male to ask him, which made more sense the more he thought about it. They were obviously trying to teach him their words as well, but he was – as far as they knew – refusing to learn. It was getting frustrated, stuck between him and the greedy Long-Paw with neither side willing to budge. He might have felt sorry for it, were it not a despicable nest-thief.

He dropped the small-tree-thing – covered in as much saliva as he could achieve – in front of them and absently received the rest of the fish, dismissing them again with a flick of his tail to mull over his observations.

* * *

Opening his eyes to find the ground several body-lengths away was a bit of a surprise to Dreamer, one he still wasn’t quite used to. This morning was a particular shock due to how his head had been dangling and so it was literally the first thing he’d seen.

After an only mildly uncomfortable moment for his body to work out that it wasn’t falling, he blinked himself awake and began his morning stretch, again hissing in pain as he forgot his tail fins were–

He froze.

 _No_ …

His breath became heavy, and he determinedly stared ahead. It didn’t have to be true if he didn’t look.

But it _would_ be true, he knew. He still had to get off this cursed island, which meant doing something about the bindings around his tail. Something that his captors would be unhappy about. Something that his captors would – and he slowly swung his tail around to confirm they _had_ – do their best to prevent.

The bindings had been repaired, the wire sewn back into the leather and thin washers put on the not-rivet.

 _Focus_. He took a deep, slow breath, and inspected the repair. It probably wouldn’t be any more difficult to undo, but it had taken well over a day to break through _one_ not-rivet. Breaking all three at that rate would take nearly five days, maybe four. He would need to avoid capture for that long.

There was also a chance the bindings would be strengthened if he kept getting caught, so he needed to plan, to stay ahead and alert.

Dagur gave him the first day free, and he made steady progress on the binding. At night, tucked into the crook of another branch, he slept peacefully without interruption and woke before dawn.

After stretching and descending – this time remembering both not to try to flex his tail fins, and also to take more care gliding down – he hunted down a particularly plump rabbit, then tracked it back to its warren which he dug up for what was probably its mate. He felt a little bad about that, but he needed to eat, and many prey-things he and Wanderer had caught would have had mates and perhaps offspring of their own. It was not within his power to change the nature of that.

The ever-present pain of his solitude flared and tried to sap the strength from him. He wanted to just find a hiding place and wait for Wanderer to come and get him…

But that was unreasonable. He was here, alone, and however much that hurt he needed to push through it.

He cleaned his claws and face, then after a moment’s hesitation, the rest of himself as well. It was a nice change of pace, and if he let his scales dull he would be easier to see. There was something therapeutic about the act as well, and he didn’t feel _quite_ as miserable afterwards.

Finding some nice dense bracken to hide in, he set back to work clawing out the threads, firmly dragging the sharp point of a claw across the indents. It was slow and tedious work, and though he couldn’t afford to let his guard down he couldn’t prevent his mind from drifting. Curled up with Wanderer in their new den. Cupping the fingers in his wings around the air to power up to great heights, and then soaring on the thermals. Playing with Tuffnut and occasionally the kids. The occasions they would play while Stoick watched, then curl up in his lap and purr as his great hands caressed them.

He _would_ have all that back.

* * *

The greedy Long-Paw tossed a small wooden thing across the ground hole, trying to hide something in its expression. What, Wanderer wasn’t quite sure, but it was just a little too straight and relaxed to be natural.

“ _Come_ ,” it clicked and hummed at him.

He looked back at the thing, then at the Long-Paw. It always wanted him to fetch the thing when it was thrown, now it didn’t? And why did it look so happy?

“You hear, you know,” the female said in what was pretty close to a growl, for a Long-Paw.

“What?” he asked her, still confused.

“ _I-want-that_ ,” the greedy one corrected himself, then looked at him smugly.

Despite his efforts, Wanderer couldn’t quite hide his realisation that he’d just betrayed his understanding.

* * *

Creeping through the trees, eyes and ears sharp, deep and silent breaths, an arrow nocked and ready to draw. The beast had originally been sleeping through the day, but on a hunch Vella had staked out the lake from a tree near where the Night Fury had last been known to be. Her diligence had paid off as it approached for water in the late evening, though too far away to hit from the branch she had perched on.

Dagur was _furious_ , a disagreement had broken out between two of the clans that had threatened to escalate to a full on war and he’d been forced to intervene, then the rain through the night had further complicated things. The Chief had simply told her to catch it – stressing not to kill it, on pain of death – and make sure its bindings were holding up.

 _Clever beast_ , it had very quickly analysed and begun dismantling the supposedly dragon-proof straps. They would need to catch it every few days to make ensure it remained grounded, which Dagur had been planning on doing anyway.

Though she swore to Odin, if he told her ‘it’s not every day you can hunt a Night Fury’ _one more time_ she was going to throw his axe into the lake.

But that led to their current predicament. It needed catching soon, or it was at risk of escaping. Not necessarily today, but Vella agreed they shouldn’t risk it. So here she was, stalking it in the woods.

By a stroke of luck she caught sight of it before it noticed her, trotting along through the trees. It was a rare opportunity to observe it behaving naturally, and she watched curiously as it stopped and inspected the ground, then leaned on its forelegs and made short digging motions with a scraping noise. After several iterations of these movements it inspected its claws, gave a satisfied shake and then started on its back paws.

She had moments only, and levelled the bow. It was smaller than her favourite, and less powerful, but it would do the job here. With a smooth and practiced motion, she drew the string back to her cheek.

_Creak_

The dragon was instantly alert, looking directly at her with its ears pointing straight up before the arrow had even cleared the bow, then at some point between then and the arrow crossing the distance, it just… vanished. One moment it was staring at her with those slit green eyes, the next it was simply gone. She couldn’t even hear it moving through the forest.

With a glare at the traitorous bow, she began trudging back to the village. She’d underestimated it and it was now long gone, they would just need to catch it tomorrow.

Dagur wouldn’t be happy; he _hated_ cheating.

* * *

The female Long-Paw still accompanied the greedy Long-Paw, but she no longer translated a command more than a pawful of times. It was made clear that the alternative was to go hungry.

He mostly had a grasp on the things they wanted of him though. Find a smell, find a thing that looks similar, take a thing away, and a pawful more simple commands. They even had him start biting things, not that he could do any damage but they seemed happy that he tried.

“ _Go there, bark, I-want-that_ ,” the greedy one commanded, pointing. He’d already received his usual share today – which seemed to be taking longer and longer – so he wasn’t really hungry, but even under normal circumstances he would take food while it was there. He casually did as asked, rolling his eyes at the happy and encouraging noises the despicable Long-Paws offered him as he finished.

They didn’t move to feed him which meant there’d probably be another command, so he lowered himself to the ground to wait. Hrrr, the greedy one was talking to the female, which looked bored, he got comfortable as they would probably be a little while. Very few of the words made sense, he did his best to pick them apart but soon became bored himself.

 _Finally_ they left him in peace, and he lowered his head to his paws to sleep.

* * *

Panting lightly, Dreamer loped through the now-familiar trees with an unhurried but steady pace. The air wasn’t quite as heavy with moisture as the previous day, when the sky-fire had shone on the ground wet from the rain, but it was still a little humid and made it difficult to cool off. Maybe after he shook his pursuers he would take a quick dip in the lake.

The loose bindings slapped stiffly against his tail, just half a set of stitching and the last not-rivet to pull through, which he _would_ have managed today if these hunters had given him a chance. They were _very_ persistent, and it was lucky he hadn’t blundered into a trap yet.

He hadn’t actually seen all that many traps since the second day, though there’d been one or two close calls. Still, he was in high spirits. Dagur – he assumed that’s who was following him – was relentless today because he had to have guessed how close he was to freeing himself.

 _Huff_ , if this is the best they had, then there was little to worry about. His first capture had been a fluke, somehow finding him while he slept, but remaining alert during the day with his superior senses had kept him out of Berserker hands.

All this running would leave him very tired, but he was confident he’d have enough energy left to free his tail and then fly up to the mountain to sleep; it had proven too sheer to climb anywhere to provide safety, but that same barrier would keep him safe long enough to recover when he could fly up it.

That just meant avoiding Dagur until night fell, just a little longer.

He stopped and perked his ears, quickly picking out his pursuers _still_ crashing through the forest after him, breaking undergrowth and rustling leaves.

Wait… something was wrong. The pursuit was much faster and closer now, but it didn’t sound right. It actually sounded more like a–

The confidence bled out of him in a heartbeat, leaving him empty and cold, and his paws scrabbled for purchase before he even knew what he was doing. _Stupid stupid STUPID!_ Panic gripped his throat as he fled, thoughts barely keeping up with his body.

Finding him in a tree on the second day, _twice_. The positions of the traps. How Dagur always seemed to be right behind, following his movements. The rabbits here, slow and fat with no predators to hunt them. No predators. _There were no wolves in this forest._

The bellows he had for lungs worked an enormous amount of air through him to maintain his top speed, but he found a little more when deep barking sounded behind him and he anxiously cast a glance back to see two hunting dogs gaining fast.

It wasn’t even close to enough, each bark was a little louder and closer to his tail. They looked a bit like wolves, but their features weren’t as sharp, their noses were larger, and their ears flapped wildly as they ran. Their legs were also slightly longer than that a wolf’s, and much longer and faster than his own. He could only follow his instincts, using the terrain and his agility to pull ahead in short bursts, but it was gradually overcome.

His lungs burned, his legs grew stiff, his shoulders ached, even his claws were sore from digging in for traction so much, but every guttural bark needled at his ears and sent a little more panic-induced strength through his bones.

Abruptly, something pressed onto his back and threw him out of his stride, and the sky and ground switched places several times in quick succession. He kicked blindly and sent something tumbling over him, then flipped to his paws and darted backwards with a warning hiss.

Neither dog hesitated, scrabbling after him with deadly snarls–

He was grabbed by the back of the neck, and then the world spun wildly as he was thrown from side to side. The pricks of pain from the teeth shallowly piercing his hide were quickly dulled by a crippling dizziness that held him on the edge of unconsciousness, and his stomach rolled and churned.

He couldn’t struggle, couldn’t even move, only whimper feebly as he was awkwardly dragged through the damp leaves.


	17. Tempering

Dreamer clawed at the flat base of the cage in frustration, uncaring of if it blunted the sharp tips. The hideous snapping, clicking and cutting noises that accompanied the renewing pressure around his tail were just rubbing sand on the burn, though he knew it wasn’t what it sounded like his body still reacted instinctively.

He glanced back to see if watching would lessen the needling each sound had on his spine, but he couldn’t see properly and quickly looked away before he saw the thin man take a pair of pliers to him. His imagination still ran away from him, and he stopped clawing to curl up a little around the sick feeling in his stomach. The stink of the leatherworker’s shop wasn’t helping.

His tail was eventually released, and he pulled it back in with a slow resignation. He barely bothered to look up when Dagur started talking through the bars, just directed a snort at him and turned his back. The Berserker laughed, then picked up the cage and started walking. Dreamer really couldn’t be bothered puzzling out what he was saying as they went.

As before, he was roughly shaken out of the cage at the edge of the forest, but this time there was no rage or panic to spur him on. He wearily pulled himself to his paws and gave Dagur a flat look – receiving a considering look back – and trudged into the forest, exhausted and in low spirits.

* * *

Dagur watched the black dragon go, feeling very strange. His Night Fury was restrained again, the clans were quiet, and nothing required his immediate attention. It wasn’t a lack of purpose he felt, but he had no desperate need to leap into a fray and violently kill something. Relaxed? Was that the word for this? It was nice.

It wandered into the forest, not yet broken but worn out and tired. That was good, he wasn’t done with it yet; though he _was_ looking forward to his new hat. At least until he no longer needed the dogs to catch it. Hmm, but how tired, he wondered? He walked in after it, keeping his distance but not bothering to hide himself, and only made it a few steps before its ears went up. It looked back and regarded him coolly, and he it, then after a few moments it snorted and resumed walking.

He followed it casually along the narrow path, easily picking it out in the afternoon light as it walked with its head bowed. It would fall to one of the traps at this rate, this path was littered with them – but then it stopped, carefully skirted around an innocent section of dirt, and resumed walking on the other side. It gave Dagur a better look at it in the process, and he understood now that it wasn’t simply bowing its head but was rather sniffing the ground.

That explained how it had been avoiding the snares so far, despite them being hidden with painstaking care. They could replace dirt and leaves, but not scents. Of course! It was so obvious now. But then again, he’d never pitted himself against a dragon that was so… careful. How _fun!_ He would need to be even more creative in his hunting, and a challenge was always appreciated.

It was no wonder nobody had managed to take down a Night Fury yet, combining this intelligence with the raw strength and power of an adult… But this was why he’d wanted them alive, after all. It was especially good that he’d not needed to find out if breaking its wings would break its mind, like it did to other dragons. Almost worth losing the other one.

He was tempted to lead a hunt for wherever that wretched man had taken his other Night Fury, but it would mean losing time with this one. Maybe after it was broken. He could even wear his new hat! At the very least, learning the habits of this one should allow him to track down more in future.

The dragon got distracted by something and veered off the path, nosing its way between the scattered ferns and clumps of grass, and eventually stopped nowhere in particular to dig. Before long there was a sudden jolt of movement, and a squeal briefly rang in the air before being cut off by a crunching noise. Another bonus, culling the vermin that infested the forest, though since dogs had been bought, bred and trained to guard the fields they were less of an issue.

It was an efficient hunt, anyway. Dagur doubted the beast was in any condition to chase the critters, just as it wasn’t in any condition to escape his casual observance. He’d not even been chasing it for half the day before letting the dogs loose, clearly its endurance was low; a weakness to exploit. Hmm, that made sense, it weighed about the same as one of his hounds despite being significantly smaller. A trade-off for so much raw strength in a small frame. Dagur understood that all too well, his own smaller and denser frame was a massive advantage over the slow and cumbersome bulk of most Vikings.

The Night Fury led him to the lake and scooped up a mouthful of water to gulp down, then rolled in the shallows. It seemed very determined to completely ignore him, because it then began cleaning itself. Curious, he approached it, but it appeared to find something interesting and wandered away. It just so happened to stop and resume cleaning when he stopped walking towards it.

Dagur grinned as he left it in the waning light; it had a lot of fight left in it yet.

* * *

Ears pricking at approaching steps, Wanderer lifted his head to watch the two Long-Paws enter the rock-hole, then yawned widely to show his displeasure at having been woken this early.

“ _Take this there, lay down, come here_.” He didn’t bother to fully wake up as he did as told, just kept his hearing trained on them and dozed off between commands and securing fish in his aching belly.

* * *

On the evening of the third day since his last capture, Dreamer again found himself running from the hounds for all he was worth. They could run faster and for longer, he knew, but he figured his only chance was the lake.

He’d been careful, using the water to break up his trails, but it had only delayed them.

Breath hissing through his teeth, his straining legs finally carried him out of the trees, then across the field and into the water. The barking behind him muted as he submerged, awkwardly paddling and doing his best to weave to deeper waters; without his tail fins, he was slower than he’d been as a human.

Impacts with the water sounded behind him, and soon after he was again grabbed by the neck, thrashed from side to side, and carried limply back to Dagur.

* * *

_Fetch the thing. Take the thing away. Fish. Fly up to there. Come here. Fish. Go there. Find a thing that looks like this one._

Peace.

* * *

Dreamer’s blood ran cold as howling sounded not far away, and getting closer, from the direction of the lake. He spared only a moment to stare dejectedly at his tail, on which he’d again reached the last set of stitching.

He almost gave up, but the thought of those teeth biting down on his neck… His body moved on its own, digging his claws into the ground to speed away – right into Dagur, whose hand slipped off his wing but latched onto his tail. The momentum nearly pulled Dagur to the ground, but his stance was firm enough to remain standing and lift him into the air.

Dreamer snarled and curled upwards, teeth bared and aimed at the arm holding him, but he was dropped to the ground where a thick boot instantly knocked the wind from him. When he was picked up by his tail again, he could do nothing more than hang there with a groan.

* * *

Flying. He could almost imagine he was flying, looping through the clouds and roaring with joy. Closing his eyes in a dive and trusting in his sound-sight to see the ground.

He opened his eyes – they were immediately assaulted by a harsh drumming and were forced closed again.

Flying. Soaring. _Free_.

His eyes opened again, this time to clear air. He looked up at the sky, the large sky-ice lighting the thick clouds from above. Flying had been a nice dream…

_Dream… Dream…?_

_…Dreamer…?_

He wanted to go flying with Dreamer. It had been a long time.

_Where Dreamer…?_

The darkness in his head lifted a little. Dreamer… His friend-mate, his life-bonded partner, wasn’t with him. _Why…?_ They had been separated… many nights ago…

He pawed at his head, blinking in surprise at feeling the blunt claws rake down his face. _What… happening to me…?_

All these questions fanned the embers of his thoughts, coaxing them back to life. _Dreamer in danger… Why I not fighting?_

_Because I in danger also…_

Wanderer shook his head, breathing hard, then pulled himself to his paws to stalk around the damp rock-hole. His thoughts, his fire, ebbed back into him as he snorted out his breaths and lashed his tail. His body _ached_ from disuse, his hide felt rough and raw, and his first attempt at a roar of defiance was pitifully weak.

But more importantly, the ground was wet, _he_ was wet, and yet he couldn’t remember it raining.

He wasn’t strong enough to fight this way.

* * *

Dreamer was following the scent of a rabbit back to its burrow when something suddenly and painfully _snapped_ around his leg with a metallic roar that sent him leaping back in a panic. With a foreleg anchored to the ground, he abruptly jolted to a halt in the air and landed on his chest, wrenching his leg the wrong way.

He whimpered as he got to his paws, both his leg and his shoulder now aching, then cringed at the distant howling. The dogs must be trained to react to the sound. _Great_ …

Trying to pry the jaws open did barely anything, and he quickly worked out they were ratcheted; they could close, but not open. Tenderly, so as to not encourage the trap's teeth any deeper into his leg, he dug the dirt away from the trap – it had been removed and replaced as a single piece, so that the scents were not as disturbed – and found the release lever, but it moved up rather than down.

He was still trying to stand, hold the lever up and pry the jaws open when he heard Dagur casually approaching. There wasn’t any point in resisting, he couldn’t get out of this himself.

* * *

“ _You do!_ ” Heather implored the dragon, but it just lay there taking even, measured breaths. Alvin had left her to herself for over a week now – insisting she hang around just in case – but had suddenly called her in again to find a very defiant and angry Night Fury. They had successfully trained it, it would do bidding without needing to be bribed, but apparently that morning it had woken up and fully regressed to a wild animal.

And now, three days later, it still would not obey at all even if it starved.

“It will die at this rate,” she said neutrally. That might actually be a preferable outcome, as then there could be nothing more he wanted from her.

“Obviously, idiot girl, eating nothing will kill _anything_ sooner or later. Tell it this is its last chance.”

“That doesn’t really translate as far as I know, you need to–“

“Just tell it,” he flatly cut her off.

Schooling her features straight, she tried to piece together what he had said in Dragonese. “ _Hey! You do now, you eat. You not do…_ ” She had to leave the threat hanging, she didn’t really know what Alvin intended to do and no idea how to convey a general threat.

“ _Eh, eh, eh_ ,” it laughed weakly.

“Well, that’s your answer,” she sighed.

Alvin stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “It fights us again. Apparently, we didn’t break it hard enough.”

* * *

With his breath heavy in his ears, Dreamer threw himself at the gnarly bark of a large tree and scampered up it faster than he knew he was capable of. The snarling behind him reminded him to hold his tail up and out of harm’s way.

He was realistic, however, and didn’t bother climbing to the top. Just to the first branch, which he climbed around on top of and stalked out along to a wide fork, through which he hissed at the beasts below. But he was realistic, and there was little feeling in it. Curling into a tight ball in the crook of the fork, he sobbed while he waited for the arrow that inevitably struck him in the flank; it was surely a much more painful way to go, but he just couldn’t bring himself to be taken by the dogs again.

At least the poison might put some fire back into his blood.

* * *

Wanderer was no stranger to pain, and this was nothing compared to having his tail fin torn off. It wasn’t even much compared to the pain in his empty belly. A few shallow cuts, and he was left alone to lick the hurts.

Snorting the scent from his nose, he relaxed back onto his side and closed his eyes – but then the smell of old fish caught his attention. He lifted his head and looked around, finding a few had been dropped at the other side of the rock-hole.

It was suspicious, and he looked around for any sort of trick, but there appeared to be none. He remained wary as he got to his paws and limped over. The discovery of a binding around his neck was a surprise, and strange that the long tail did not appear attached to anything, but it didn’t stop him reaching the fish – and then he could contain his impatience no longer and eagerly snapped the meal down.

He doubted this was the end of their new battle of wills… but this was evidence they wanted him alive. All he needed to do was not lose himself again.

As he rapidly digested the meal and he began to think more clearly, he realised that meant living for something more than surviving the cold-season.

* * *

With his nose to the ground, Dreamer followed the thick smell of rabbit through the trees. He kept a very sharp eye for traps as he went, looking and smelling for any disturbed ground, until he caught sight of his quarry.

It hadn’t noticed him yet, though it was very still – it might have heard him approaching. He slowed his pace and crouched low, preferring an easy–

He was suddenly picked up by the scruff of his neck and held aloft before Dagur, who had appeared to have smeared most of his body with mud. “Yoo noe, I’m goeng to gett borrd if you maek thss too easy.”

Dreamer snarled at him, but was dropped before he could react – without thinking, he threw out his wings to remain in the air and slashed at Dagur’s face, feeling his claws bite through the skin. His second flap threw him backwards, out of Dagur’s reach, and he twisted in the air to land at a run.

Dagur’s mad laugh and gleeful shouts followed him quite a distance into the trees.

* * *

Pushing down the nausea building in her stomach, Heather pointedly ignored Alvin as he wiped his thin knife with a rag. Her ears rang in the silence, as if the shrill sounds were still echoing off the walls.

His too-charming grin, however, could be seen across his vague figure at the edge of her vision. “This is a setback, but fear not. It’ll break, and then you and your mother can be on your merry way! You must be looking forward to it.”

She hummed an agreement, but didn’t get up when he stood and walked to the edge of the ‘training’ ring. Maybe he hesitated, maybe he didn’t, but the sounds of the inner gate opening and closing, then the outer gate, confirmed he’d left without her.

She just stared at the Night Fury as it awkwardly shuffled away from her, using its wings and tail for support. It looked pathetic. “ _Hey_ ,” she grunted bitterly, and it stopped and swung its head around to watch her with a single green eye. “ _Why you fight?_ ”

It snorted at her. “ _Why you not?_ ” She was sure her face remained still, but its eye lit up and it turned to face her, laying half on its side with a dark amusement in its expression. “ _I not know what he say,_ ” it said condescendingly slowly with a gesture at the closed gate, “ _but I know he not do what say_.” Despite her composure, she felt her eye twitch, and it gave a low and haughty laugh. _“You know. You…_ ” It looked at her thoughtfully, then tilted its head to gesture at the rope around its neck with an eerily human smile creeping along its mouth.

She blew air between her tongue and teeth in an approximation of a hiss, which it only seemed to find funny, and stormed out of the ring, slamming the gates shut on the way through.

* * *

Dreamer tumbled out of the cage and onto the grass.

He didn’t bother getting up. What was the point? He was just Dagur’s plaything, a toy to chase around the forest. Dagur was only getting better at chasing him down, and even with that aside he could not escape the hounds.

Every part of his body hurt. His muscles ached from overexertion, the three most recent arrow wounds stung their complaint in varying degrees as his movements stretched them, his neck just plain hurt both in hide and bones, and his tail ached so fiercely and constantly that he barely even noticed it anymore.

Dagur nudged him with a boot. “Hey. Yoo dunn?” _What’s the point…_ “Gess it’s taim for a neww hat! HAHA!” He picked Dreamer up by the scruff of his neck and carried him back towards the village with his tail dragging through the dirt.

Sadness welled in Dreamer’s heart, just another hurt on the pile. He’d had a good flight as a Nightstriker, though not nearly as long as he’d expected. If it meant living on like this though, being hunted almost every day and living in fear all the time…

Dagur kept talking amiably as he walked. “I’m thinkingg of mownting your skull on my helm’t, but it mait get damaged. Maybe jusst your scales? They’re pretty strongg. OOH, I koud be ‘Dagur the Dark’! Some pauldrons tu go with it.” He giggled like a child in the armoury, and a sick churning rolled in Dreamer’s gut to match his despair. “I’ll need themm done quicklee, thenn whe cann sthart hhuntting fhor your bruhthurh. Hah, you’ll geht tu sei hhim againn!”

Dreamer forgot his pain. All of it. The thought of Wanderer looking up to see Dagur approaching, wearing his head as a helmet, broke what was left of his heart. Dagur wearing Night Fury scale armour while he chased Wanderer through these forests, over and over… It was beyond cruel and horrific, especially with what Wanderer had already been through.

He… He couldn’t allow that.

His muscles found something to burn, he twisted and thrashed in the grip that held him to become a wild storm of claws and scored a few shallow gashes on Dagur’s leg. It got him dropped, and a gleeful laugh sounded behind him as he bolted between the fields and into the trees.

Panting heavily, he eventually slowed to a stop at the lake. _Can’t allow that can’t allow that can’t allow that!_ It was all he could think, and he curled up to drag his paws over his head and whine and keen his despair at the vile thoughts. He couldn’t stop imagining Wanderer’s expression at meeting Dagur wearing his lifeless head and skin, in countless scenarios, and each one tore him to pieces anew.

It was a long time before he collected himself, shakily pulling himself to his haunches. He felt empty, depleted, bare. Free of everything that had been jamming the gears in his mind.

Gears of cold logic that were now whirring to life.

His top priority was preventing Dagur from keeping his body. Jumping into the ocean or burying himself in the lakebed had a decent probability of success, but not a guarantee, and he could think of no other means of ending himself. That just meant he needed to escape.

Swinging his tail around in front of him, he gave his head a shake and narrowed his eyes at the bindings. It took too long to dismantle them with his claws, and Dagur was sure to catch him regularly. He needed a way to break through them in a single night.

 _Stop thinking in terms of what I have. What do I need?_ Hands, for one. _No, I don’t. Hands are a means, not an end_. He needed to cut through the bindings. For that he would need a pair of cutters. Several plans for how to use cutters with his paws flicked through his mind, but they would all need hands to set up. The required leverage was too great to just wedge them somewhere and lean on them, they would need to be secured to something and he was incapable of doing that.

 _What else could I use?_ Fire. He had no fire of his own, and couldn’t use flint even if he had any. _Can’t make fire, so find it_. He could take some from a village, but filed that aside to plan separately after some scouting, if he came up with something. A simple torch was all he would be capable of carrying, which would not be even close to hot enough, but someone would notice if he lit a forge.

A plan came together, simple on paper though no doubt the execution would be more difficult. It was risky… but then again, Dagur seemed to want to keep him alive only as long as he fought back. The alternative was dying anyway. And if he was careful, everything could be handled innocently without belying his knowledge and intelligence.

* * *

The command was easy enough to ignore. Wanderer growled at the Long-Paws, then fought the pull on the bindings around his neck. He was dragged forward regardless, and each time it was more painful, but it was necessary. He would fight until his last breath if needed.

His claws raked harmlessly over any skin that neared him before he was heavily pinned, the touch again overwhelming his senses. That was good, it meant he was still rejecting them. Another blinding gash of agony before he was released, and he awkwardly and painfully stumbled away to lick his new wound.

A moment of peace. Another command. Another wound. He was strong, but nights of this was slowly wearing him down… How long he could keep this up?

 _Snick. Snak_.

As long as he needed to.

* * *

Astrid brought Stormfly around and landed on the boat a _little_ harder than was necessary, feeling a dark satisfaction at seeing the crates of goods shudder on the deck. “Johann,” she said levelly, freezing the man in his tracks with a hand to his cabin door.

“Ah, m-mistress Astrid, a p-pleasure as alw-ways,” he stuttered nervously. “Would you be patient for an-nother day–“

“You’re been to Berserk recently, right?” she asked sternly, cutting him off.

“…I hold no allegiance to any–“

“ _Yes or no_ ,” she growled.

“Ah… Yes…? A few days ago. Why might–“

“Did Dagur…” Her harsh words choked off as her stomach climbed into her throat.

Johann’s eyes flicked between her and Stormfly, then apparently decided they weren’t about to kill him and straightened his posture. “Dagur the Deranged, a fitting title,” he said wryly as he stroked his beard. “Never before have I seen him quite so excited, wouldn’t stop talking about a new helmet… or perhaps a hat. He couldn’t seem to decide.”

The weight of those words crushed her spirit. They were gone. Forever. And even worse, that lunatic would be running around wearing them as–

“Once it stopped running around the forest…? He did not deign to elaborate on that. Mad as a Nadder in a barrel, that one.” He glanced at Stormfly. “Er, no offense…?”

Astrid went rigid. _They… they weren’t… yet…_

A tug on the saddle had Stormfly launch herself from the boat, and they sped back to Berk. The flight was only a couple of hours, but she could almost feel every moment slipping past. Every moment was one Dagur had potentially become bored with his toys, if he hadn’t already.

It felt like a week had passed when she finally crashed into Stoick’s house, but he wasn’t there. She spun and darted up the stairs to the hall and darted inside, finding him idly finishing off his dinner with a mug of ale in his hand.

“They’re alive!” she blurted out, slamming her hands onto the table to prevent herself from crashing into it. “Or, at least one of them is, was, a few days ago, I–“

“ _Calm_ , lass,” Stoick ordered tersely, and her mouth shut as she stood upright, but she could see the hope and impatience under his stern expression.

“I _might_ have gone ahead to meet Johann… but he’s just been to Berserk, and Dagur said the Furies are just running around the forest! Until…” She just bared her teeth, not able to say it.

“That… is a tall order…” Stoick rumbled slowly.

“But we–!“

“ _Calm!_ ” he snapped over the top of her, and her mouth clicked shut again. “You can’t just fly to Berserk. Think this _through_ , Astrid. I’m not saying not go,” he cut off her objection with a raised hand before she could make it, “but can your dragons fly there and back without rest? Can you find them? Can you extract them safely? You aren’t going _anywhere_ until I see a plan. And you aren’t planning _anything_ until you’ve calmed down.” He took a long breath. “I can tell you from experience, that doesn’t work.”

“ _How can I_ possibly _be calm right now!?_ ” she shouted. Dagur wouldn’t just be letting the Furies run wild, he’d be constantly hunting and chasing them, _torturing_ them, and the only thing she could focus on was how _frightened_ Hiccup had been with Dagur standing over him.

“Then I’m sorry for this,” he said sadly before his fist slammed into her gut.

Her feet left the ground and her breath left her with a _whoof_. He’d definitely pulled his punch, but this was from a man known for killing dragons with his _bare hands_. She felt as if Gobber’s anvil had been dropped on her.

“You alright there, lass…?” he asked quietly.

“…Yeah,” she wheezed from the floor. She actually did feel a bit calmer now, in a half-unconscious sort of way.

“Good,” he rumbled, then his giant hand appeared in front of her to help her to her feet. “Now go get the others. And let me know if you need calming again.”

* * *

Pinching his chin, Dagur mentally mapped the path they had followed. From the lake back to the village, where it had wandered up and down the treeline, then right down the main path and almost into the village itself. Along the outermost buildings, apparently stopping at several places ideal for observing from, before heading back into the trees and to the lake, from where it had run away when he’d first tracked it there.

But what was it _doing?_ This was a wild change in behaviour from the hunting and hiding it had done until now.

Dagur scowled at the dogs. They were effective tracking tools, but would be a weakness in a real hunt. A grown Night Fury would simply… “ _Kaboom!_ ” he exclaimed aloud, startling the hounds, and laughed. He had been quite lucky that neither had been injured so far, the beast may be small but its claws at least were sharp; he had the gashes to prove it.

He now knew how to trap a Night Fury, had ideas on luring them, knew their habits, and could recognise their tracks and signs of habitation. Now he just needed to know how to fight them, but this little lizard could not give him that experience. Even if he let it grow up on the island, it wouldn’t be a real fighter that had grown up in the wild with other dragons.

He thought he’d learned everything he could from it, but now it had gone and done something unexpected and new! Grinning widely, he bit his lip in anticipation. For his hat, or for a new challenge, he wasn’t sure yet.

After all, “It’s not _every_ day you can hunt a Night Fury!”

* * *

Alvin watched his dragon shuffle across the stone to reach its dinner. It was a determined reptile, he had to give it that.

This had only been a backup plan, but that was before the heads of two of his plants on Berserk had been left adrift on a small raft to be picked up by his network of Outcasts. Now there was a good chance he really _did_ need to break it. The old prophecy only mentioned one, but even if it did require its cooperation he wasn’t about to go putting all his faith in fairy tales. Prophecy or no, a Night Fury at his beck and call would put him at the top of the Archipelago.

 _Tch_ , but manipulation was so much simpler when love was involved; particularly familial love. That was why he’d sent Heather, after all. He just hoped that berserk fool hadn’t killed his prize yet.

_Snick. Snak. Snick. Snak. Snick. Snak._

The quiet sound drifted up from the ring, unnoticeable if not for its constant repetition in the evening silence. Alvin leaned in to look, but the dragon was just laying there, staring at the wall and not moving at all. “What’re you up to…” he murmured. It turned to look at him, but the sound did not cease.

He gave it a suspicious glare before striding away. They would need to be even more wary of shed teeth – it wasn’t as if they could check by prying its mouth open – and of course he was wearing his bracers under his sleeves.

* * *

It had taken a surprisingly long time to put together. Half a day collecting the rocks, half the rest of the day digging up a bank by the lake, then utterly failing to make any progress. Dreamer managed better the second day – even despite being chased off by Dagur, though he wasn’t caught – and managed to set the rocks into the damp soil so that he had a makeshift kiln built into the bank, about big enough for him to curl up in. It would be terribly inefficient, leaking heat between the stones, and the stones themselves might explode if it got too hot for too long, but it should do the job.

To hide his project he’d selected a location amidst low, limp-hanging reeds where it was difficult to see much from a distance or from behind. Things got tricky from there. He couldn’t lead the dogs, and therefore Dagur, back to it, so he could only access it from the water. It made the whole process a lot slower. However, after thinking on it for a while he decided it was actually safer to just walk away instead of going back out through the lake. They’d pick up the trail and follow it away, rather than picking up the small pocket of scent and investigating. More than a few times and Dagur might get suspicious, but he should be done before that became a problem.

It then took a frustratingly long time to retrieve enough wood as well. He was limited by what he could bite through, but managed a nice balance of twigs for kindling and thicker branches that should produce suitable coals. These of course all had to be carried through the water; he couldn’t risk carrying them above the surface and someone seeing where he was taking them.

Maybe he should have done the wood first, to give it more time to dry. Everything was more obvious after it was done.

Dropping the long branch he’d been carrying, he peeked from the reeds to scan the lake. It was strange to _want_ Dagur to catch him, but it was getting to about that point and showing the bindings were undamaged might buy Dreamer a little more time. He thought while he settled himself on the damp ground to crunch the branch into more manageable pieces, weakening it with his teeth and then twisting his neck to snap it off against the ground.

With all his wood in suitable pieces and set up to dry as best he could manage, he shook the splinters out of his mouth, took a quick dip back in the lake, and casually wandered out to the forest in the evening light. Dinner, sleep, then a day of rest. The wood should be dry by then – there was no scent of rain on the wind – and his tail would be free. _Tomorrow night_ …

He purred, the rumbling in his throat unfamiliar but very pleasant, then set about finding one of the many rabbit trails. He had become quite adept at picking out the slightest smell of disturbed earth now, and he was hyper aware of every sound for fifty body-lengths. Really, if not for those accursed dogs he’d have been gone… weeks ago? How long had he even been here?

His teeth slid from his gums as he crossed a fresh trail, hunger putting his thoughts back on track and feeding fire into his limbs. It had been a while since he’d had a decent hunt, and his lithe body almost hummed in anticipation.

Spotting the rabbit, he lunged straight for it and thrilled in the short chase through the trees. Too short, but then his stomach was aching too much to be disappointed. The second rabbit proved something more of a challenge at least.

Satisfied, he cleaned his claws, face, and then began a general groom. The numerous pale marks marring his hide made him wince, thin lines all over and dozens of pale dots peppering his neck and shoulders. Many of both were still raw and painful. It was difficult to decide which was worse, the dreadful poison that corrupted his thoughts, or the despicable dogs that… he’d rather not think about.

 _Soon_.

The night passed uneventfully, though he slept restlessly. He didn’t have much to do the next day and just moseyed through the forest for most of it, paddling through the lake a few times to check on the wood and finding it suitably dry by noon; thankfully the early autumn sun still had some bite to it, at least this far from the Meridian of Misery.

Dagur tried his hand at hunting without his dogs, and he’d actually managed to get within thirty feet before Dreamer noticed him. That had been a scare, followed by a tense chase, but while Dagur could endure a long hunt through the day he could not keep up at top speed. And without the dogs, Dreamer could mask most of his tracks and leave him behind. He spent the evening napping lightly in a tree to build his strength back up.

He was woken by the sounds of dogs sniffing through the forest, not far away. _Oh no_ … He squeezed his eyes shut. If he stayed here he’d be shot by an arrow, which always knocked him unconscious for most of a day and then disrupted his thoughts for a time after that. With everything set up, he didn’t want to lose that time.

The alternative…

If he thought about it, he’d never do it. He slashed the branch he lay on in frustration, then let himself drop and swooped to the ground. He just knew he was going to regret this.

Wait… Dagur was trying not to rely on the dogs. Which made sense, they’d be no threat to a larger Nightstriker and only useful for tracking. If he played this right and let _Dagur_ catch him… Maybe that would work.

The footsteps were close now. Close enough. He took a long breath, steeling himself for what was to come, then ran at a tangent to the sounds making as much noise as he could.

The pursuit immediately picked up and barking rang through the trees, it was just a matter of who would appear first…

His chest tightened at seeing the dogs appear from behind a wiry thicket – but then Dagur sped past them, and he breathed a sigh of relief. _This is the weirdest situation_ … He deliberately ran a few notches from his top speed, watching the Berserker close in from the corner of his eye.

This was working out perfectly. Dagur would grab him, maybe knock the wind out of him again, but he’d avoided both the arrows and the–

Dagur drew his axe.

A sharp intake of breath caught in Dreamer’s throat, and he dug his claws in to abruptly change direction. Dagur seemed to expect it and immediately angled after him, even gaining a bit of ground by cutting the corner.

Dreamer found a new top speed, frantically slamming his paws against the ground and using the weight of his wings and tail to more efficiently steer through the trees. _Think think think!_ Dagur had probably decided on a lethal hunt over an execution. _Deprive him of that_.

A glance back had him running even harder. Right on his tail, Dagur was in a full-on Berserker trance, confirming his lethal intent, and showed no signs of tiring or slowing. _THINK!_ His thoughts were difficult to grasp with all his energy directed into his body, and he had to focus on plotting an efficient course through the trees.

It was soon evident, however, that there really was only one solution. Funny, how being caught by the dogs almost sounded appealing now, but they were behind Dagur and Dreamer couldn’t maintain this pace for much longer. There was still one trick he hadn’t shown yet.

He held his right wing out and let his tail drift off to the right, at the same time he picked some firm ground in front of a tree and planted his paws firmly for a sharp left turn. At the speed they were going, probably none other than Dagur would have the reflexes to react in the short time that was given, but he didn’t have time to check. He snapped his right wing back to him, threw out his left wing, and _heaved_ his tail across, shunting his body to the other side of his paws to launch himself to the right instead. He then planted his paws on the tree and pushed off that for a sharper turn.

The pace behind him became disrupted with a grunt of surprise, and the next breath of air Dreamer blasted from his lungs might have counted as a sigh of relief.

And then, as planned, the dogs crashed into his side, grabbed him by the neck as he skidded to a stop, and thrashed violently. His insides convulsed, and he distantly tasted bile dripping from his mouth, but he was _alive_.

His head swam as he was dragged across the ground, a pleasant sensation on his scales. _Everything_ – except maybe the teeth in his neck – was a pleasant sensation right now, given that a moment ago he’d been claw-lengths from feeling nothing at all. Had he really been ready to give up a few days ago? Death terrified him now.

The dragging ceased, and he opened an eye to see Dagur sitting cross-legged nearby and breathing heavily through his bared teeth. His expression was equal parts rage and admiration. Dreamer couldn’t help but give him a small and weak smile. _You will never catch me_.

The axe swung around to point at him, a claw-length from his nose, and he eyed the tip warily. The words Dagur forced through his teeth were completely unintelligible, but the message was clear; _next time, I will kill you_.

* * *

Clenching his teeth, Dagur eyed the girl presented to him. _This_ was why he’d been pulled away from his Night Fury!? He was still coming down from the trance, and even _his_ control had its limits. “…Wait, I know you, you were with that guy who took my other Night Fury! And you think _you’re_ a Berserker? That’s a good one!” He growled and spun his axe, but kept it in his hands. She was his only lead to his other Night Fury. Maybe this wasn’t a complete waste of time.

“No I _don’t_ think I’m your sister, actually, I have no idea what game these two are playing!” She scowled at the two outcasts who were holding her at the edge of the old boat, though they paid her no attention other than to point knives at her vitals.

“Test her how you want, she is,” one of them said. “A hunned gold pieces and she’s yours.”

Now that he really looked at her… she almost could be his long-lost sister. She’d been so young when she disappeared with her mother though, and there were a lot of people in the Archipelago and beyond, finding a look-alike wouldn’t be impossible. Then again, the price was practically pocket change. “A hundred gold is kind of _light_ for a blood ransom,” he responded flatly.

The outcast shrugged, his open mouth showing off his pointy teeth. They were _really cool_ , tempting to do himself actually, but it had become a sort of Outcast signature. Pity. Maybe he could hunt down all the Outcasts and take the trend for himself. “Don’t need much gold when you steal most stuff you need. And you’re less likely to chase us down and murderise us.”

Dagur nodded with a thoughtful frown. “Yeah, you’re probably right. You think he’s right?” he asked the guard next to him, but just received a dumb look back. Dagur rolled his eyes and threw him into the harbour. “So you think you’re a Berserker?” he asked the girl.

“No!” she shouted back.

“I’ll ask some questions. Answer truthfully or this guy dies,” he spun his axe again and held it to the throat of the other guard with him.

“… _Why_ would I care about that?”

“Ha! Correct answer.” He returned his axe to his back, and the man breathed a sigh of relief. Dagur rolled his eyes again and threw him into the harbour with his buddy. “Question two, what does your father look like?”

“I don’t know! I never knew him…”

“Question three, what does your _mother_ look like?”

“Brown eyes, blonde hair… Kind of… round face…”

“And her name’s Berghild?”

“No, it’s Eidis.”

He narrowed his eyes at the girl. “It’s your lucky day Outcasts, I don’t have time for this. Pay them and–…” His guards weren’t with him. _Tch_ , sloppy. He spotted one climbing out of the water. “Pay them and put her in my guest room! Make sure she stays there!” he shouted, and the man thumped his chest and jogged off, leaving a wet trail. “We’ll talk later,” he promised her, and strode back to the leatherworkers to check on his Night Fury.

* * *

Astrid paced the longboat as it casually cut through the waves, willing herself to patience. _Just another test_ , she forced herself to think. Stoick had reminded her a Chief needed to remain calm in the most stressful and dire of circumstances, and this was certainly the best experience she was ever going to get at that. If she could stay calm here, she could face Ragnarok with a smile.

She only had to remember what they were all risking to temper the more reckless thoughts. Stay at a distance, no engaging, be smart. Spitelout, who was accompanying them, also kept a careful eye on her in particular. Well, she was _done_ with letting people down.

The boat was a little cramped to carry all the dragons, so they flew in shifts. It worked well because they could scout quite far from the air and ensure they sailed around any poor weather. Naturally it would be far quicker to just fly, but Stoick’s concerns were justified, the dragons wouldn’t be able to fly there and back while carrying their passengers. Or if they could, then they would not have any strength to spare.

It was, amusingly, one of the Berserker boats that had been left behind in the raid that had yet to be refitted. It didn’t really camouflage them what with the dragons all over it, but they didn’t intend on sailing that close to the island, it was more so if they had to ditch it then Berk would not be directly implicated. It was also available, spare, and fast; at least compared to other boats, it was excruciatingly slow compared to flying.

But, after days at sea, they were _finally_ nearing Berserk and its low mountain was taking shape in the distance. _Just hold on little guys… We’re coming._ The timing was unfortunate, the sun was just setting so they’d need to wait until the next day to scout the island. At least the dragons would all be well rested. She angled the boat to a large sea stack, a little way ahead and just outside of Berserker waters. It would be safer to rest there for the night.

From the shadow of a smaller sea stack, Savage scratched his chin with an inscrutable expression as he watched the distant blot on the water with its convoy of dragons. “Get me an arrow and some parchment,” he ordered the nameless Outcast accompanying him. “And get the black sails ready. We’ve got a backup plan…”

* * *

With a brand-new tail binding – the leatherworker had been very confused, undamaged as the old one was, but caved to Dagur’s insistence – and no poison in his blood, Dreamer was released back into the forest the same evening. Just enough time to dig up a meal and rest a bit.

He needed to strike late enough in the night that the humans would be tired, and early enough to give him time to work. He should have felt tired himself, he knew he was close to exhaustion, but he was tense and anxious as he watched the sky-sparks crawl across the sky. He passed the time by leaving misleading trails near his kiln, trails that led on wild chases through the forest and eventually looped back well away from his hideout. If – when – he was tracked back to the lake it would give him more time to act, as long as he wasn’t spotted carrying the torch.

 _Finally_ , it was time.

He prowled along the path between the fields, staying low and quiet with his ears trained on the dogs guarding the crops. He supposed he had the rabbits to blame for them - _no, stay focused_. They would probably be alerted on his escape, but he could do nothing about that. Just as long as he had enough time to hide the flame.

He approached the side of the outermost building and blended in with the shadows, peeking down the street. He’d memorised the route of this guard, but watched him again just to confirm tonight was no different… then picked his moment and skulked from the darkness.

Several torches lined the street, the one he went for wasn’t far but he didn’t have long to get it. Heart pounding in his chest, his body stiff with tension, he closed his teeth around the shaft – immediately discovering it was _metal_. What kind of crazy village could waste metal on _torches?_ He tried to tug it from the ground, but it was stuck fast.

A surprised grunt pricked his ears, and he darted back to the shadows. _Thump-thump-thump-thump_ went his heart, surely audible even to the burly man approaching the torch. He carried no light himself, but after a moment of peering into the darkness, picked up the one Dreamer had been going for by removing the wooden head from the metal frame.

Breathing heavily, Dreamer eyed the flickering green light.

 _Now or never_ …

He backed into the darkness, wary of his eyes reflecting the light, and waited with his stomach in his throat and his pulse thumping in his ears. _Surely_ this man could see him, holding the coveted flame aloft like that? He was _right there_. No, the darkness was a Nightstriker’s element, and he went undetected.

The Berserker shrugged and turned his back.

 _I’m sorry for this,_ Dreamer thought at him, then silently loped forward and reared up to slash deep into the man’s leg. He barked in surprise and pain, spinning around and swinging the torch low while he drew his sword. Dreamer only had eyes for the torch, catching it in his teeth and wrenching it away.

His elation at success was tempered by the lumps that came with it, leaking bitter blood into his mouth, but he couldn’t stop to think about it. He beat the ground with his paws, digging claws into the packed dirt to speed towards the forest.

The dogs by the fields did not bark, but he could hear them running for him – they were _guards_ , he realised, that caught or chased off any threats to their field, so once in the safety of the trees the pursuit thankfully tailed off.

He almost couldn’t afford the time, but he dropped the torch – and fingers – to retch violently and shake his head, flinging globs of saliva over the ground. Still queasy, he bit back into the wooden handle and streaked into the forest with the precious flame rushing at his side.

Following his internal map and listening to the distant sounds of pursuit, he ran straight for his chosen entry point into the lake; close enough that he could quickly swim to the kiln, far enough to make use of his false trails. He slowed to slide into the cool water, ensuring the fire remained above the surface, then by paddling and snaking his tail – he’d become rather practiced in the last few days – he managed to quickly skim across the surface without extinguishing his only hope. He also managed to climb up through the reeds without setting them all on fire, though he was sure a few must have caught.

Hurriedly, he shoved the head of the torch into the kiln and threw his wings over it, blocking the light, then listened intently. He had been so _fast_ , and with the guard’s injured leg there was no way…

The sounds of footsteps and hushed shouting was still muffled and very distant, and peeking above the reeds he could see nothing. Fierce relief layered into the elation and tension, a medley of adrenaline that had him buzzing.

He forced his breathing to slow, then turned his attention to the kiln. He still had a lot of work to do.

Stoking the fire was easy, letting the smaller twigs catch and then feeding in larger and larger pieces. Once he had a solid flame going he carefully extracted the thick torch and tossed it into the water – all that effort only to have it extinguish with a hiss. It felt like a waste, but the long piece of wood and oily rag were of little use now.

Once the larger pieces were burning, he took in a long breath and began blowing under the flames. Heat immediately washed over his face, the fire humming at him happily as it chewed into the wood.

Was it too soon? Well, ruining the binding was the whole point. He navigated his tail around and poked the end into the heat, a further discomfort on the fins but easily tolerable. He arranged some more lumps of wood over the top of it, keeping up the constant stream of air.

It was very bright in his little cubby of wings and dirt, but poking his head out confirmed very little light was escaping outside. Without the fire so close, he could also hear his pursuers, closer now but moving further away. One of his false trails, no doubt. He ducked back into his wings with a smirk, then blinked at the sudden and intense heat from the fire.

Gingerly, he extracted his tail and inspected the leather. Not much difference, but the stitching was in poor condition, and he managed to pick through each stitch in a matter of moments. He’d already selected his four break points and worked the wire out much more easily, though acutely aware of the time it was taking. He couldn’t assume the Berserkers would just give up, most likely someone had been sent to get Dagur and his more experienced dogs. They’d find him eventually. Sooner if they happened to get downwind. Or heard the fire. _Oh man I really didn’t think this through._

 _It’s fine, just keep going_.

The fire had died to a merry flicker and dull embers by the time the eighth short length of wire was pulled free, in a fraction of the time. He poked some more wood in and followed it with his tail again, blowing more gently to encourage the new wood to catch, then more firmly to heat it once it had.

Between the exhaustion, tension, adrenaline, and constant exhaling, he was beginning to feel very dizzy and lightheaded, but he was far too close to rest now. Hope _burned_ in his chest, a feeling he had all but forgotten. _So close!_ The wire warmed to… well, he supposed it was red, but he couldn’t really see the colour other than that it was glowing. He pulled it out and tugged at the wire – still too strong to snap. It was thrust into the water with a tiny gulping sound, then he shook the water free and poked it back into the kiln.

When he tugged on the heated metal again, and his claw broke through it… he almost could have cried. But he wasn’t off the ground yet, and he could still hear voices and footsteps. _Quickly!_ Half the wires needed another reheating before they snapped, and then he shredded through the heat-damaged leather with his teeth at each of the four break points, moving towards the tip of his tail. The hot air was stifling, but he didn’t stop to poke his head out for a breath regardless of how tempting it was.

_One._

_Two._

_Three…_

_FOUR!_

He ripped off the _despicable_ bindings and threw them at the water, uncaring of the small splash they made, then shoved his poor tail into his mouth and silently whimpered around it. The fins felt locked in place and didn’t immediately respond to his attempts to open them, so after briefly massaging it with his mouth he reluctantly released the appendage to tease them out with his claws.

It was _excruciating_ , the unused muscles and tendons searing their complaints into his nerves, but very quickly that didn’t matter.

_No…_

He let out a quiet whine through his open mouth, staring in horror at his tail fins. His disfigured tail fins, the bones inside them bent out of shape and preventing the membranes from spreading properly.

He was still very much stuck on Berserk.


	18. Perspicacity

Numbly, Dreamer put his tail back into his mouth and gently massaged it again. His saliva wasn’t magic, it couldn’t correct the bones, but he just didn’t know what else to do.

 _Move_.

Yes, he… he needed to move. They were looking for him, it was only a matter of time. What would they do when they caught him? Kill him for fear he would escape? Or just rebind his tail? He didn’t think he could go through this again. No, he was pretty sure they would just kill him, they had reached that point already.

He reluctantly pulled his soggy tail from his mouth and flexed the fins. They were still extremely painful and stiff, but they moved. With a deep breath, he tried to visualise the various positions and their effects, letting the fins spread and angle accordingly. The membranes remained crumpled but provided a reasonable surface area; he might not be _entirely_ grounded now at least.

The fire popped in the kiln, bringing his attention back to the ground. He needed to dispose of the evidence – simply pushing dirt into it achieved that, it was now nothing more than a curiously arranged mess of dirt, rock, and charcoal.

And now he needed to _move_. Quickly poking his head up to check the coast was clear – there were now two search parties scouring the lake, but neither of them were on him yet – he crept from the reeds, took a running start…

Then, with a great flap of his wings, leapt into the sky.

His tail immediately weighed down, not quite able to catch enough air, but with adjustments to his flapping he managed to get airborne. The strain on his wings was tremendous, they weren’t meant to be used at this angle, and in addition to being ‘heavy’ his warped fins created drag, but for a moment he just revelled in the _flight_ and _freedom_. For a precious moment, he forgot everything that had happened and that he was still trapped. For that instant, he was truly happy.

Though, only for a moment, and he bit down on the joyous roar before it could leave his throat. The longer they searched the ground, the longer he had to recover and… figure out what he was going to do next.

What he was going to do _now_ was an easy decision, he alighted on a small ledge high up Berserk’s mountain and immediately collapsed. The same sheer cliffs that had prevented him from scaling it now protected him, at least for a time, and with that knowledge he was barely able to even catch his breath before his exhaustion dragged him into the first real sleep he’d had since arriving on Berserk.

* * *

Heather wandered aimlessly through the village, feeling alone with her thoughts and recent revelations.

Of _course_ she was a lost heir of the Berserkers. That was _exactly_ Alvin’s style, she wasn’t just some random girl he’d picked up and trained in manipulation. She was a hostage, leverage, whatever he wanted her to be, and capable enough that he could put her to work until he could use her.

Though, knowing Alvin, it was _also_ his style to trick her into _thinking_ she was Berserk’s heir to somehow use it against her, jumping to conclusions would be unwise. Although… Dagur’s questioning the night before had been _very_ convincing. Her story matched perfectly. _Could_ that even be fabricated?

She kept an eye on the burly guard following her and wondered where he would prevent her from going. The docks, obviously, and probably the forest. He hadn’t really been bothered by anywhere she went in the village.

Her home town was a traditional peaceful settlement, preferring to earn a living rather than pillage and steal it like the barbaric Vikings. The wealthier inhabitants owned the poorer ones, but nobody could afford to just kick back and relax all day. Berk abhorred slavery, offended by the notion, and even the general concept of ownership was much looser than she was used to. Everyone simply took what they needed, but only what they needed.

Berserk was the complete other end of the spectrum, heavily relying on slavery for its day to day running. The Berserkers themselves were easy to pick out by their scars and enormous builds, but very few of them seemed to be doing anything productive. The smithy, tannery, fishing boats, mead hall, every building she came across was staffed by thin people dressed in rags. Only the blacksmith really looked healthy, but lacked the thick arms and torso expected of his trade.

The Berserkers were also easy to pick out because they were all in a hurry. Once she’d finished a circuit of the village she hung out in the mead hall to gather intel, inviting her guard over and rambling some nonsense about preferring the atmosphere and letting him grab a drink. He just grunted at her and obliged, thoughtfully sliding her a tankard of water.

_“Is that her?” “Shh don’t even look.” “Imposter.” “Mad as he is.”_

It seemed news of her arrival had spread, and though they spoke of her it told her more of Dagur. Seemed he didn’t rule with an iron fist, but just his name was enough to set people straight. From what she’d seen of him she could believe that, she should take care to avoid him as much as possible.

The conversations – all of them – gradually moved to another topic, which seemed to be that of the Night Fury that had apparently been missing since last night. Piecing together fragments from here and there, she worked out Dagur had taken her advice and bound its tail, probably in the same overengineered bindings he’d bound it with back on Berk, and after weeks of constantly hunting it down it had magicked away the binding and disappeared.

But rather than disappointed, everyone was tensely excited. They all thought they would be the one to capture it and claim the glory, though Dagur apparently reserved the honour of killing it.

So it lived, but not for long and only if it didn’t escape sooner. _Tch_ , Alvin had really outdone himself with _this_ mission. She could attempt to best hundreds of seasoned dragon hunters in hunting it down herself, or intercept it while it was guarded by the most vicious warriors in the Archipelago; assuming it didn’t just fly away never to be seen again. What exactly did he want her to do here? Maybe if she’d been a few days earlier…

Dejectedly, she shuffled out of the hall and dragged her feet back to her accommodation; Dagur’s abode, a slightly larger but otherwise nondistinctive house near the centre of the village. The door wasn’t locked, and she let herself in to return to her room and shut the door behind her. The guard slumped into a chair outside, by the sound of it. With any luck he’d be asleep before long.

Years of practice allowed her to get rest when she could, and after preparing a lamp she dozed through the evening. Dagur didn’t return, but the sound of parchment tapping against the floor roused her. That was a relief, at least that meant there was a plan. She quickly lit the lamp, retrieved the message from under the narrow window, and squinted at Savage’s nigh-illegible scratching.

…

Well, this was within the realm of possibility at least… but not by much.

* * *

A firm gust of wind, smelling cleanly of the sea and clear skies, roused Dreamer by buffeting his wing against his side. He blinked himself awake in the early evening light – he’d slept through half the night and most of the following day. It felt as if a weight had been removed from his back.

And one had, in a way. He swung his tail around and flexed the fins, no longer as sore but feeling weak and tender; understandable, given the circumstances, they hadn’t moved in… weeks, he guessed. He inspected them with a clearer and calmer head as the grogginess lifted from his mind.

The five thin ‘fingers’ in the fins were kinked where the bindings had clamped over them, only slight bends but that added up with how many there were. Would they correct themselves in time? Doubtful… He had some ideas for an apparatus to guide the bones back into shape, but he’d need Gobber to make it and could therefore only escape with what he had.

The idea crossed his mind to fly out to sea and drown himself where Dagur couldn’t reach him, but he grounded the thought. He now wanted to live, to fly with his friend, grow up and breathe fire… A whimsical part of him wanted to experience love, but he could never have what he’d dreamed of with Astrid. The obvious connotation of his new body didn’t sit right with him either.

He batted himself on the head a few times, _dreaming again_ , and brought his attention back to the present. Whatever he was going to do, he’d need strength, and that required food; a whole day had passed since he’d last eaten.

With a stretch, he got to his paws and approached the edge – then scrambled back and flattened himself to the ground. There were Berserkers _everywhere_ , and many of them had dogs. It was unlikely they’d seen him this far away, but he was beginning to lose track of the range of human senses, and his dark scales would be very visible even in this low light.

 _Rabbit might be off the table…_ He approached the edge again, just far enough to see the sea and the Berserker ships stationed evenly across it. Not that he knew what he was expecting to do out there. He _might_ be able to fish, as long as some came near the surface, but needed somewhere to climb out in case he couldn’t launch straight from the water with his damaged tail.

 _Grrr_ , so close but so far from leaving this accursed island. Taking a deep breath, he tried to put his mind to work… but could think of no solution. He needed more information, and could do little more than wait for the sky-fire to burn out.

When the sky-sparks began to twinkle between the scattered clouds, he rolled and flexed his tail fins one last time as he tentatively approached the edge. The island was no longer swarming, but he could see a few still combing the area around the lake. With any luck he’d be able to duck into the forest, catch a rabbit or three and fly back up before anyone caught up with him.

Though, he would need to be careful of arrows and bolas. They would have trouble seeing him, but he himself had managed a lucky shot on a Night Fury in the dark, travelling full speed at that. Best to be cautious, scout things out first and keep moving.

He spread his wings, revelling in having even a little of his flight restored, and jumped into the air. It took him a few moments to get his rhythm going, he couldn’t just soar like he wanted and he needed to flap his wings a little further back than he was used to, but he managed to fumble his way through it. How did Nightmares and Nadders fly without tail fins? It was so unfair.

Having been restricted to the ground for so long, he should assume his endurance in the air had suffered, which when combined with that he was very hungry and needing to flap constantly… he needed to make this brief. But neither could he afford to rush.

One quick lap. He looped around the island, over the forest, and angled his ears out to pick up sounds below him. The distant growls and rustling might have been his imagination… but he didn’t think so.

About three-quarters of the way around he noticed runners passing to and from a table that had been set up near the treeline by the lake, manned by a few Berserkers. Two of them could have been Dagur, the darkness and distance were less hindrance to his incredible eyes but he still had his limits. Regardless, they had a centralised command post. _Aaaand I’ve just gone and alerted every dog on the island that I’m in the air. Great_.

The smartest thing to do in that case was to wait out their alertness. Probably land in an open area where he could see nearby threats, and sneak into the forest from the ground.

Something caught his eye as he began labouring his way back up the mountain, strange shapes against the jagged vertical rock. He drifted a little closer – then banked sharply away with his stomach in his throat. _Hammocks_. A _lot_ of them, all pinned to the mountainside. He had to admit, it was the first place he’d look for a dragon too.

He didn’t know how long it would take them to clear it, but he knew they were familiar with it. The Hooligans waited for the dragons to come to them, but the Berserkers sought them out and needed to be adept climbers, so used it as practice.

He growled quietly to himself, this was all too much for him to process. What was he supposed to _do?_ He laboured his way a safe distance above the hammocks and dropped onto a smooth little ledge. The first task was to get something to eat, which he’d try later in the night. The second was to find a way off this island…

* * *

With the Berserker longboat anchored, the six Hooligans and their dragons had rested on a tall sea stack with a wide, flat top. Mostly flat, it was sloped a little steeper than was comfortable, but the dragons didn’t seem overly bothered and provided good support.

Astrid blinked herself awake just before dawn and stretched, rousing Stormfly next to her. “Hey girl,” she cooed. “Ready to find some Night Furies?” Today would just be scouting, if they were going to do anything it would likely be at night.

“Have a nice sleep-in, lassie? Lay awake missin’ yer pillow?” Spitelout crowed from the back of his dragon.

Actually, Stormfly had been _very_ comfortable to sleep against, but she wasn’t going to admit that. “Nah, these rocks are just right. Thinking of taking some home, best sleep I’ve had in weeks.” She joked back, but flatly. Anxiety and fear over what she might find was creeping into her gut and she couldn’t put any feeling into the usual banter.

Spitelout seemed to pick up on it, and gave her a slow nod. “Best we focus today. Oy! Boyo!”

“Nooo Dad, it’s too early,” Snotlout groaned.

“Kingstail?” Spitelout prompted with a sigh, and his dragon plodded down the slope to snort in Snotlout’s face. Astrid hid a grin at his scream. “Ah actually meant ter step on ‘im, but ah guess that works too,” he mumbled. “We’re goin’ scouting, boyo. You need to hold down things here and watch fer anyone gettin’ too curious. We’ll be back later ter plan.”

“What? No, I’m coming with you,” Snotlout insisted, searching for his helmet.

“On a big obvious dragon yeh can’t control. ‘Caus _tha’s_ a good idea. Ah mean it, _stay here_.”

“Don’t worry,” Fishlegs mumbled sleepily, “we’ll keep him out of trouble.”

Wondering what sort of chaos they would be returning to, Astrid finished her stretching and climbed into the saddle, then they were climbing into the air towards Berserk.

“Think we’ll find them?” Astrid called over the wind when they levelled out, just trying to start conversation.

He shrugged. “Tha’s the point of scoutin’. We won’t know wha’ we’ll find until we get there. No sense thinkin’ either way ‘till you know.”

“Yeah, well it’s hard not to think about.”

“Aye, which is why you should nae really be here.” Astrid snapped upright to glare at him. “You ‘eard me. Yer too close to this, not thinkin’ right. Frankly, ah think this is a waste o’ time altogether, bu’ Chief’s orders an’ all.”

“You seriously don’t care Dagur’s torturing a pair of innocent dragons over there?” she asked incredulously.

“Like we did any better with dragon training,” he countered.

“That _doesn’t_ make it right! We didn’t know. _He_ doesn’t care. It’s different. Besides, they’re… our friends.”

“Ah wonder about tha’. They won’ be trained, an’ they won’ take a rider. Wha’s keeping them here? Betcha they’ll be flyin’ off afore they’re full grown.”

There was more on that he wasn’t telling her, and she scoured her training for any sort of clue. The most simple and obvious connection… Plus a touch of concern… “You’re worried Stoick is too attached to them.”

His eyebrow went up as he looked at her. “Yer a smart lass, tha’ll net you in trouble one day if yer no careful. Bu’ ah won’ speak ill of me Chief.” He stared forwards for a little while before quietly adding “Even if ah _do_ think he needs ta let go of ‘is dead son.”

She let the conversation die there. It had been risky for him to say that, and showed he had a measure of trust in her. He complimented Stoick well, and she wondered about who her own Marshal would be. Probably Snotlout, he was the one training for it and had shown once or twice that he _could_ be serious when he needed to be… but _ugh_ , he really needed to grow up first.

This was all a _long_ way off, she was getting ahead of herself thinking about it now. She focused on the task at hand, calculating arrow range from the top of the mountain and drawing herself barriers to avoid. As long as they remained down there and she up here, they couldn’t touch her.

The town they flew over was a bustling port of activity. “Is this normal?” she asked Spitelout, having never been to Berserk herself.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Ah dunno, i’s hard ter say. Never seen it from up ‘ere before, an’ no’ since Dagur became Chief.”

“Okay… so how about _that?_ ” She pointed at the middle of the island, and its little gazebo near the lake with a steady stream of Berserkers toing and froing.

“No’ so much,” Spitelout agreed. “Ah’d say they’re mountin’ a full-scale hunt. Prolly fuh yer beasties, there’s nothin’ else in those trees.” No axe had been spared in this hunt, they were even climbing the mountain with such inhuman speed it might as well have been level ground.

If they were hunting like this, then the Furies lived… but how in Thor’s name were they supposed to intervene? “Ideas…?” she called out to Spitelout.

“No way we can get low enough durin’ the day. Weh’ll scout a while longer, thar’s more ter see yet, an’ if nothin’ better comes up we’ll come back at night an’ hope yer beasties can find each other. Where’s it likely ter be?”

“If… if they could fly they would have just flown back to Berk, they could make the trip, so they won’t be on the mountain. Can a dog track a dragon?”

“Ah’d say so, but I don’ know fer sure.”

“Maybe they’re in a sea cave then…”

Kingstail drifted a little closer. “Don’ get yer hopes up lassie, tha’s a _lot_ of hunters down there. An’ don’ do anything stupid either. Ah _will_ grab you off yer dragon if ah think yeh need it.”

She spared him a curt nod, keeping her attention on everything going on below.

* * *

“Reporting. Dog picked up a new trail, definite start and end.” The voice was proceeded by someone striding up to the command area to stand respectfully, a hound obediently following at his side.

“Show me,” Dagur commanded, burying his knife in the corner of the map of Berserk to hold it still. The man walked forward, picked up a charcoal pencil, and roughly scratched a few lines before stepping back and being forgotten. The marks started near the lake, then entered the forest for a distance where they stopped.

This was proof it could fly. It had probably eaten now as well, but it hadn’t approached the lake. It might own the night, but a tight patrol of archers and torches had kept it from the water. Every time he’d caught it the first thing it’d done was get a drink, so if he kept it from the water he would keep it weak and unable to leave. It had also been showing less and less stamina over the weeks, so this should leave it crippled. It was only a matter of time.

As long as it didn’t harbour any other mysterious tricks. Magic had to be involved here, it was the only thing that made sense. Though he had little doubt the Night Fury had stolen the torch, he couldn’t work out what it could possibly have used it for. The beast had _clearly_ been planning something, he’d known that when it had grinned at him; he should have just killed it then. What a worthy opponent it was! Very deserving of an honourable death, and the next time he saw it his axe was cleaving through its neck to show his respect for it.

“Chief!” someone called, out of breath. This was going to be either very good or very bad. “The girl… she… uh…”

“Well, spit it out, is she gone or what?” Dagur groaned at him.

“Er… Yeah.”

What was going on here? He must be cursed or something, first he couldn’t keep a dragon locked up, and now he couldn’t even hold some girl. “Well, it _is_ a Night Fury. Should have seen this coming, really.” And if he’d underestimated the _dragon_ , could he have underestimated the _girl?_ Which would mean… “Hey, she really _is_ my sister! That’s great news!”

“You’re… not mad?” the man asked.

“Oh I’m furious, but I’m not going to gut myself now am I?” He laughed good-naturedly. Nobody laughed with him. _Rude_. You should always laugh when someone jokes about gutting themselves. “Where is she?”

He shook his head. “She’s just gone, and you’ve got all the dogs. If you give me one I could–“

“No, ignore her for now. Either she’s still here or she’s back with those Outcasts, she’ll stay that way whether we look or not. Go climb the mountain.” It had to be there, they’d already looked everywhere else, they just had to chase it off and be ready for when it came down.

Scratching his chin, Dagur wondered how many Berserkers it would take to kill an adult Night Fury. They didn’t look _nearly_ as dangerous as a Monstrous Nightmare or Deadly Nadder, now that he’d got a good look at one. Maybe they were specialised for flying and striking targets at range, and were useless in close quarters. That just meant getting close and preventing it from escaping. They also seemed to be even more susceptible to dragonroot than other dragons, though perhaps it was less effective on an adult. He wouldn’t know any of this until he tracked down another one.

First, he needed to track down this one.

* * *

About halfway of the way up the mountain of Berserk, the winds blasted in every direction in eddies and currents. This was the limit of how high Dreamer could fly, the low crevice he had wedged himself into was sheltered but he could hear the air lashing at the rock as he roused to the sight of the sky-fire smouldering on the horizon.

He crawled out and stretched, then raised his head a little to peer down and observe the island; he was _way_ too high up for his little black form to be visible to humans. They were barely visible to him down below, and he knew his eyes had several times the range.

But he was at an impasse. He couldn’t hunt during the day, and ships were unlikely to sail by at night. That might not have been such a huge problem if he wasn’t so _exhausted_ ; he felt like he needed to sleep for a month.

He sat back on his haunches and swung his tail around in front of him, again marvelling at the fins as he flexed them. Still warped, of course, but _free_. He licked the membranes and _purred_ at the sensation, so sensitive after–

_Crack_

With a shriek, he scrabbled backwards and tripped over his tail, landing on his back. He instantly scrambled to his paws, but not fast enough, and a wild storm of emotions whirled within him as something closed around his tail.

“I’s eer! Aa go’ i’!”

The man’s face, now poking up over the ledge, quickly change from elation to regret as he saw the dragon snarling at it; one hand holding said dragon’s tail, the other gripping the pick hooked onto the ledge and preventing a fatal fall. A younger Dreamer might have given him a chance to realise and correct his error, but with everything he had been through he felt he could not afford it.

His claws buried into the back of the hand on his tail and quickly ripped through it, shredding the muscles and allowing him to pull free. The man let out a sharp groan through his teeth, but clearly still intended to climb up. Dreamer disabused him of that notion by slashing at his face and forcing him to duck down.

 _There are more of them_ , the Berserker had been talking to someone. Whether one or a hundred, it didn’t matter, fighting one off would be difficult enough, two impossible. He leaped to the side of the ledge and pushed off it, throwing himself out into open air and snapping his wings out–

Then shrieked _agony_ and _despair_ as a sickeningly familiar weight buried into the scales just below his ribs, and his senses were torn asunder.

* * *

Hornets buzzed in Astrid’s gut as she watched the sun sink towards the horizon from their sea stack. This waiting was the hardest part of the whole trip, and the moments crawled past in her adrenaline-fueled state. “How do you deal with this part?” she asked Spitelout, as much for the answer as to distract herself.

He shrugged. “Yeh jus’ get better a’ not showin’ it. The wors’ thing yeh can do is relax, tha’s when they’ll hi’ ya.”

This was torture, she _had_ to do something. “Well I think it’s close enough now. Some last-minute scouting would be good.”

Snotlout snorted. “Uh, yeah, if you want them to be wary of the dragons circling overhead. They might catch on, better we approach at dark.”

“Yeh both have a point,” Spitelout said almost absently, “bu’ the second ter wors’ thing yeh can do is jump in early ‘caus ya ain’t thinkin’. Ah yeh makin’ this decision on a clear head, lassie?”

She took a long breath to steady her thoughts. “We might have already made them wary, we were in the air a while today. If we approach high they might not notice us anyway, we won’t be able to see much but we’ll notice anything different from earlier. Unlikely they’ll set up a brazier or catapult, but…”

“Which they won’t be able to use if they don’t know we’re there,” Snotlout countered.

“Aye, ‘tis a fine excuse,” Spitelout said with a nod, “but if yeh can think of tha’ yeh can can think the decision through. You’re the dragon expert, an’ this is _your_ mission, so do yeh want intel or stealth?”

She nearly answered immediately, but made a show of hesitating to think and silently thanked Stoick and his tutelage. Just one of the things that had made Hiccup so infuriating as a kid, she realised, and now she was doing it as well. “What I said stands. We move.” It was difficult to contain her haste in climbing into the saddle.

A grumble from Snotlout was cut off by his dad knocking him on the helmet. “Suck it up boyo, ya want the decision, ya get the responsibility.”

“Now remember,” Astrid called out, staring pointedly at the twins, “stay well out of range until night falls. We’ll then split up around the island, and Stormfly will call out for them. If they call back, everyone head towards them, or the nearest one if they’re separated, but _don’t_ engage. Wait for everyone to assemble and plan if you can’t safely extract. Got it?”

“Why does she always look at us when she says this stuff?” Tuffnut mused to his sister.

“Yeah! Snotlout derails at _least_ as many plans as we do,” she grumbled back.

Rolling her eyes, Astrid turned to Fishlegs. “I know I don’t need to repeat myself to _you_ , are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” he reassured her. “We’d only slow you down if you need to leave in a hurry, and I can watch things here. Save us from getting ambushed if they discover the boat.”

“Thanks. We’ll be counting on you if they have any injuries.”

“Sure thing.”

“Alright guys, move out!” she called to everyone else, and they all took to the sky.

The flight to Berserk was quiet and tense, and Astrid did have to give credit to Snotlout and the twins for actually looking serious about this. Having such a strong goal was part of it, and for better or for worse this would almost certainly be a maturing event for them. A desperate rescue mission in extremely hostile territory. Incredible they’d been allowed to go at all really, though they _were_ by far the most practiced with dragon riding.

She almost had to agree with Spitelout, that Stoick was too attached to the Furies, but that would imply they shouldn’t be here.

The island of Berserk loomed ahead, even as far below as it was. “Alright everyone, do a quick lap and meet back in the middle!” she called out, and the others banked away. She scanned the ground for any changes, but there was nothing different to earlier. It was a relief to see the command tent still set up, and while activity had slowed it had most certainly not stopped. There were a few more net launchers, but all were still focused around the lake. She considered starting a fire in the forest as a distraction, Hookfang would be best suited for that. Just an option at this point.

There were Berserkers still climbing the mountain too, though it seemed they were leaving men on the ledges. If the Furies _were_ up there, they were aiming to chase them down and not give them anywhere to hide. She grit her teeth, when she got her hands on Dagur…

Hookfang’s wingbeats announced the arrival of Snotlout. “They’ve got an army of archers, and they’re _everywhere_. Whatever we do, we can’t stick around.”

Astrid nodded tersely at him. _Duh_. Barf and Belch were next, with Spitelout right behind them. She hoped they hadn’t already disobeyed her, but Spitelout didn’t look any angrier than usual so probably not.

“There’s like, a dozen places we could cause some _serious_ mayhem,” Ruffnut crowed.

“Safely, I’ll add, as you’re all about that,” Tuffnut piped in. She wondered what his definition of ‘safe’ was. Well, more arrows in the quiver, as Stoick might say.

Spitelout didn’t offer anything, so she did a last scan of the island and pulled closer to address everyone. “Alright then, everybody get–“

That was as far as she got before every dragon’s head suddenly snapped towards the mountain, sending a shiver down her spine. “ _Hold on!_ ” she yelled, right before Stormfly _heaved_ her wings against the air. It wasn’t the ridiculous top speed so she was able to squint through the wind, but there wasn’t much to see other than Stormfly’s head twitching subtly as she looked for something. _Please please PLEASE be okay…_

They pulled into a hover a little way from the mountain, and Stormfly crowed uncertainly. “Shh, it’s okay girl, they’re here somewhere.”

“Wha’ was _tha’_ abou’?” Spitelout called over as he pulled up beside her, Kingstail similarly letting out low clucks and chatters. More wingbeats behind her signalled Snotlout and the twins behind them.

“They reacted like this last time when–“

 _Everyone_ heard it, a stricken cry from below that stabbed at Astrid’s heart, and then they were diving. Spitelout was shouting something, but it was lost over the wind, and she urged Stormfly for a little more speed to pull ahead of him. He was _not_ pulling her out of this, not now she could see the black shape tumbling through the air. _I can make it!_

She angled Stormfly, who had been aiming to pick him up in her claws or maybe her mouth, so that she could catch the Fury herself. The ground was getting uncomfortably close, but he was _right there!_ She almost had him!

With his wings limp and creating drag, they quickly caught up and Astrid snatched for him, her grip sliding off – but then she latched onto his tail and pulled him onto her legs, below her spiky skirt, and Stormfly immediately pulled out of the dive. Both rider and Fury were flattened to her back as the wind rushed past them, and something sharp dug into her leg, but then they were soaring back into the air! She’d done it!

Her elation was cut short by the limp form in her lap, and worry clawed at her as she held a hand to his side, then a flood of relief as she felt him breathe. Tears stung her eyes to be whipped away by the wind, and she hunched over the black dragon. “I gotcha,” she whispered.

But why was he so limp? She shifted him to get his claw out of her leg, then quickly realised that wasn’t his claw and awkwardly rolled him over. An arrow fell out of his chest, though only half of the head had penetrated. She needed to get him back to Fishlegs.

Her eyes lifted from the dragon to find the others… then widened. “Oh…”

* * *

Spitelout saw Astrid dive after the sound, and shot after her with a particularly blasphemous curse involving Odin’s mother, an ugly dwarf, and a large yak. “Look where you’re _going_ girl!” he shouted, but either the wind was too strong or she was ignoring her. “Odin’s breeches,” he swore again, and glanced at the others, all following with faces set in determination. For better or worse, they were committed.

The Zippleback and Nightmare began bathing the side of the mountain in fire, a constant stream from both dragons, and screams sounded behind them to be quickly lost to the distance. The smokescreen was helpful, but naturally those posted on the lower ledges would be looking up at the progress of the higher ones, so arrows were already flying up to meet them. Astrid wasn’t even _trying_ to dodge, way too focused on her task.

Too risky to take her out of it at this speed, he urged Kingstail on, putting himself between the mountain and the Chief’s successor. Hopefully his dragon wouldn’t mind protecting another, he wasn’t as closely tied to the village as the teens’ dragons yet, though he offered no complaint.

They weaved through the arrows they were flying into, Kingstail using his horn to swat away a few flying at Stormfly. Spitelout had to assume they were poisoned, one had likely hit the Fury to take it down the way it did… he couldn’t let one hit either dragon. Thankfully they were difficult targets at this speed.

One arrow caught his attention, strangely more in focus than everything else. He knew that one would be it, the one to down Kingstail, it was coming in at the wrong angle for him to knock away and they didn’t have anywhere to move away from it without endangering Stormfly. He grit his teeth, and leaned down Kingstail’s side to take the arrow in his own shoulder, groaning as it dug deep.

He spared a glance back above them, finding a large smokescreen obscuring much of the mountain and a rain of rubble following them down. A suitable disengagement, _those_ teens had made better a bad situation and further increased their odds of surviving it, otherwise they’d be pulling up into a hail of arrows.

 _Finally_ Astrid caught the beastie, and they snapped out of their dives and quickly pulled into steep climbs. The other teens were following behind, thankfully all accounted for. The arrow in his shoulder burned something fierce, but it was far too deep to just yank out. He had someone in mind to handle that particularly unpleasant job, and he cleared his throat at her as they drifted into a more level glide.

“Oh…” she said at the glares directed at her.

“Oh? _Oh!?_ Is that all yeh’ve got ter say?” Spitelout berated her. “Did yeh even _see_ the arrows we took for ya!?” Her wince said she did not, and he groaned. “Odin be _spanked_ girl, after all those speeches! Is the dragon a’ least alive?”

She nodded fervently, and Spitelout slumped a little in the saddle. It wasn’t for naught, at least, and he didn’t need to berate her further; Stoick would handle that. “Alrigh’ then, everyone back to the boat.” He shot a look at Astrid that _dared_ her to argue, but between his useless arm and two of the dragons looking worse for wear from the extended burns, she seemed to think better of it. She had _some_ head on her shoulders at least.

“Give,” Tuffnut ordered flatly, and she couldn’t refuse. The black shape was handed over and the lad began fussing over it as they flew out to sea.

* * *

Blinding pain – darkness – his own roar in his ears – torchlight – familiar voices… Dreamer _tried_ to make sense of what was going on, but every nerve in his body was smouldering and his head was telling him to rip and shred at whatever he could to stop the pain. Not that he could so much as open his eyes, so he just dug his claws into the wooden – wooden? – floor and snarled through his teeth between bouts of unconsciousness.

He eventually woke with a somewhat clearer head, and set to work separating a more lucid part of his mind from the mad aggression that came with the poison. It was a bloody and constant fight for control, but he’d had quite a bit of practice.

Well, he was alive, for now at least. The sounds pressing into his ears placed him… on a boat? _What?_ He cracked an eye open, creasing his forehead as his eyes struggled to interpret the light. Yes, he was definitely on a boat.

A quiet and enquiring noise pricked his ears – _slash, maim, KILL!_ The aggression overpowered him and he stalked towards the source with a snarl crackling from his mouth, but whoever it was flopped onto their back and splayed out. The submissive act caused him to pause and he wrested back control, then tensely padded forward.

 _Tuffnut_.

He recognised the hair immediately and paired it with his scent, and a whimper left his mouth. _Tuffnut!_ The sight of the teen had never brought so much happiness to him, probably to anyone for that matter. He gave his face a brief nuzzle and purred – wait, that was closer to a growl than a purr. _Hel claim those despicable arrows!_ He couldn’t even sheathe his teeth, they remained locked out, so he backed up and unleashed some of his aggression on an unfortunate floorboard.

“Uhh, you okay Hiccup?” Tuffnut asked as he sat up again.

Dreamer responded with a sort of flat and quiet growl-snarl, and tried to chew a small lip on the board he’d been clawing at. Wait, the wound, the longer it went untreated the longer he would be like this. He sat on the base of his tail to inspect it, finding it had already been cleaned and treated. It smelled of Stormfly, and another purr-growl rumbled in his throat.

“Yeah, Stormfly wouldn’t go near it until we cleaned it, and was a bit touchy after she did. You going to okay?”

“Food, water,” he growled, then again wordlessly when he realised Tuffnut didn’t know Dragonese. Or probably didn’t, he _might_ have learned it? Then again, he’d always been good at guessing. Either way, the boy produced a couple of fresh fish and a deep bowl of water that Dreamer bounded over to and dunked his snout in, though he had to be careful not to guzzle it too quickly.

With his belly full he had a bit more control again, and set about trying to sheathe his teeth. It was as if there was a great weight pulling them out, and he only managed to get them half in before they snapped out again. He made a frustrated sound; to his own ears it sounded like a tree snapping in half.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Here.” Tuffnut slowly reached forward to take the now-empty bowl, and tossed it across the room.

Unthinking, Dreamer saw the movement and lunged for it, taking it in both claws and teeth and rolling with the momentum. Before he even came to a stop he violently thrashed his head from side to side, holding his quarry firmly in his fangs, then pinned it to the floor and _roared_ at it. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space.

Panting, he stared at the splintered bowl. His body was simmering with achievement, having successfully ‘killed’ the harmless lump of wood, but it tempered the aggression and he was able to relax a little. It was working faster this time, probably because the poison had been cleaned out more quickly; actually, it looked to still be night, he’d even woken up more quickly than usual.

…He’d always hunted _two_ rabbits after recovering though, so he picked up the bowl in his mouth and padded over to Tuffnut, then dropped it in front of him and nudged it forward. Tuffnut threw it again and Dreamer scrabbled after it, though his ‘kill’ was much less violent this time.

His habit sated, he managed to sheathe his teeth and took a moment to investigate his surroundings. Aside from a crate of miscellaneous supplies and few barrels of what smelled like preserved fish, and probably water, the hold of the ship was open and empty. It didn’t look like Hooligan workmanship.

“Yeah, we emptied out one of the Berserker boats we had and sailed it over.” He took a long, pained breath. “We… couldn’t hang around to find Toothy. I’m… We’re sorry…” His words were tangled in _sorrow, tension, anger_.

 _Wanderer_ … They needed to find him. Dreamer let out a low whine, it was an old pain now but without being in immediate danger himself it was becoming more prominent. He huffed to get Tuffnut’s attention, then held his gaze and shook his head side to side.

“No? He’s not here?”

“You understand?” Dreamer asked tentatively.

“I don’t understand that yet. But I will, now we’ve got you back. Lemme get Fishlegs.” He leaned on an arm to swing his feet around, preparing to stand, but Dreamer stepped forward and pawed at his leg. After a moment’s hesitation, the legs were crossed and allowed him to carefully lay himself across them and curl up; before anything else, he needed some reassurance.

A grateful and mournful purr rumbled in his throat as a hand began stroking his head and neck, lingering over his sensitive frills. He wasn’t sure if it was this young mind and body that made him needy like this, or simply his new way of life allowing him to be more open with himself. Then again, while he’d had some harrowing experiences in his old life, they had all been _nothing_ compared to the last few weeks. He no longer cared.

So he allowed himself to find comfort here, to help reassure him that he was _finally_ safe again, and quickly fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

* * *

Astrid stood numbly at the till, watching the horizon begin to glow as dawn neared. She continuously worried the handle, as if she could rub off the oily and stained feeling after working the arrow out of Spitelout’s shoulder. He was sleeping now, propped up against Kingstail with his shoulder bound tightly and arm strapped to his chest.

She’d really screwed up. Spitelout had let up quickly, but she had no doubt Stoick would… actually, she didn’t know how Stoick would react. Everything had turned out okay, with little credit to herself, and they’d rescued one of them; Hiccup, judging by the scar across his leg, though he was now _covered_ in new ones. She was getting lectured and punished either way, but the Chief’s disappointment was much more difficult to deal with. In a way, it was harder not knowing what he would think.

The approach of Meatlug’s buzzing wingbeats tore her from her thoughts, Snotlout had yet to even wake to take the watch so Fishlegs must have seen something. “Ship ahead!” he called once in earshot, landing on the deck a few moments later. “Don’t recognise the design, no markings. Probably Outcasts.”

A couple of under-equipped strays wouldn’t give five dragons much trouble, but best to steer clear. “Thanks Fish. You might as well go wake up Snotlout, you know what he’s like.”

He gave her a nod and a sympathetic smile before walking off.

She had to resist locking the till to poke her head down on things below. Tuffnut had been very firm in demanding she stay out, and it was hard to argue when even Fishlegs deferred to his authority on the wellbeing of the Furies. Still, she was a little worried, there were some very pained sounds through the first half of the night that suddenly turned loud and aggressive. It had been eerily quiet since, but neither Tuffnut nor Fury had emerged. Things had to be okay down there.

First half of… The sun was now rising, and she hadn’t slept since the night before. As a Viking she could go two or three days straight where she needed to, but she didn’t even feel tired. Weary, perhaps, but there was an unsettled buzzing in her head that refused to abate.

Astrid shook her head and kept an eye out for the ship, Fishlegs helpfully showing Snotlout to it and giving her a bearing. She adjusted their course accordingly, giving it a wide berth; as if the nearby dragons weren’t enough of a deterrent.

However, the ship began moving to intercept them. _That can’t be good_. She angled to the other side, just in case it was a coincidence, but it swung around in front of them again.

Locking the till, she quietly crossed the boat and gave Kingstail a reassuring stroke on his cheek before nudging Spitelout’s boot. “Hey, wake up, we’ve got company.”

“Eh…? Wassat…?” he mumbled groggily.

“Strange boat with no markings, moving to intercept us. Can you fly? I’d rather play this safe.”

He found his helmet nearby and clapped it onto his head, then stood stiffly and held his injured shoulder. “Ah’d rather no’, tha’ was definitely the first arrow yeh’ve pulled. Well if they ain’t Berserkers we should be fine, five dragons shoul’ be more than enough fer any boat even withou’ riders.”

Astrid brought her fingers to her mouth to whistle loudly, then made exaggerated arm motions for Snotlout and Fishlegs to approach the boat from the other side. Ruffnut managed to corral Barf and Belch to the side of the ship, ready to act, and Kingstail happily perched on the prow without instruction. Stormfly clucked irritably at him, then squeezed around the mast to take up a position near Astrid.

The other ship, now off to the starboard side, turned to match their heading and slowly pulled closer. As it neared, she inspected the design herself. It seemed to take a middle ground of all designs, except that it had very little ornamentation and was built with a very dark wood. That, plus its tattered and dirty sail that bore no markings, almost certainly pegged it as Outcast vessel.

But what would the Outcasts want with them? “Ruff, be ready to sink their boat if I give the signal.”

“What’s the signal?”

Astrid rolled her eyes and made a chopping motion.

“Alright then. Blow the boat up if you do that. Got it. If you don’t do that, can I blow it up anyway?”

…Maybe it had been a good idea to clarify what the signal was. “No.”

“Aww.”

“If you two are _quite_ done, yeh migh’ wan’ ter pay attention to who’s on tha’ boat. ‘Caus if ah’m not mistaken, ain’ tha’ your friend?”

Peering across the distance, Astrid tried to make out who he was referring to. It was covered in junk, barrels, and old bits of wood, much of it draped in rags, so it took her a moment to pick out the lone figure aboard. Recognising her was much faster.

“ _HEATHER!?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter did not want to come together, but got there in the end. That, combined with an exhausting two weeks of various family drama, hasn't left me with much of a buffer xP
> 
> The next chapter at least will be ready on time, in which you guys have a couple of reveals to look forward to...


	19. Understanding

Heather cringed at the accusing shout that drifted over the water. Well, at least this time she could explain, it was part of the plan, even.

She held her arms out to show she was unarmed, and kept them visible as the two boats drifted nearer. There was an additional Nadder on the deck than was expected, Spitelout too who might have been more of a problem had his arm not been bandaged and bound to his chest. Getting off Berserk had been an extremely difficult task in itself, let alone with the required items, so this had better be worth it. Whoever the plant was, they’d been no help whatsoever beyond delivering the message. Typical.

The till was locked so the boat was going straight ahead, but Astrid angled their boat to pull it in more quickly and levelled out with the railings almost touching, Spitelout adjusting the sails to match their speed.

“Astrid! I’m sorry, just let me–“

“I don’t want to hear _anything_ you have to say! You’re going to climb over here, and–“

Well, she had tried. It worked either way, much faster than expected. Whatever else Astrid had been demanding was cut off as quiet _fwip_ sounds, barely audible over the sea rushing past below, preceded loud dragon screams. One such scream hurtled down behind her to splash into the water.

“ _Please_ , just don’t kill them!” Heather implored Savage over the din as he appeared from between the mast and the narrow bed leaning up against it, but he ignored her to drop the heavy clamp over the two railings and lock the boats together, just before they could pull away. If she could just get to Astrid first, and ideally the other teens to knock them out, then maybe–…

Wait… _One_ splash?

The last dragon roars were coming from above her, and she spun to find Meatlug still hovering in the air. An arrow was definitely poking out from her underside, and it was definitely one of the poisoned Berserker arrows she’d stolen, but it wasn’t taking effect. Fishlegs looked just as surprised as Heather did.

Both Heather and Savage backpedalled as Meatlug swooped down with an angry growl, barging into the Nameless as he drew a more mundane arrow. The impact sent him flying over the railing to Spitelout’s feet, where he was casually kicked onto his back and stabbed through the heart.

Astrid looked like she was about to jump over to throttle Heather herself, but held back. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she called out instead, addressing Savage, and Heather’s stomach dropped. “You’re going to send Heather over, and you can go. Tell the other Outcasts how _stupid_ it is to attack a Hooligan vessel when you eventually get back. Or, Meatlug up there sinks your boat and we fish her, and _only_ her, out of the water. Up to you.”

She hadn’t even finished talking when Heather was hefted by the back of her shirt and tossed over. Her legs caught on the railing and sent her tumbling, then Astrid kicked her in the side and planted a boot on her shoulder. Over her own gasp and groans, she heard the clamp being lifted and distantly noticed the mast of the other ship drift away.

The moment Astrid had started talking, she’d known this was coming. There was no loyalty between Outcasts, just fear of Alvin, and Savage could pretty much invent any story he wanted. With no chance of escape, Heather was left alone to wheeze out her pain while boots thumped around her and the boat turned back for Snotlout. She was painstakingly dragging herself into a sitting position when a wet teen and limp dragon flopped onto the deck, and then she found herself looking up at Astrid.

“Well well, this is a nice bonus,” she chirped. “Chief is _not_ going to be happy with you, he’s rather attached to his Furies you know.”

“Just… Let me explain…” Heather forced out.

“And why exactly should I do that?”

“Because Toothy… is on Outcast Island.”

* * *

Astrid paced the deck. Things had been so much simpler as a Shieldmaiden – axe, bad person, arrange a meeting. It was a much more difficult task to determine whether or not someone _was_ a bad person. Heather was forced into her actions by threats to her mother, so did her actions still make her bad?

No, she decided. Just stupid. “If you’d just told us, we could have mounted a rescue! We have dragons for Thor’s sake, nobody would care if we burned up a couple of Outcasts.”

“Do you know where Outcast Island is?” Heather snapped back. “Because I don’t. They shut me in the hold for two days’ sailing around it.”

“We! Have! _Dragons!_ ” Astrid repeated, trying to shout the stupid out of the girl’s head. “Stormfly can cover a day’s sailing by mid-morning, and you can see a half day’s sailing in every direction!”

“…Oh…”

“Yeah, _oh_.” She rubbed her aching head. With the adrenaline wearing off her, her lack of sleep was catching up and her thoughts becoming sluggish again. “What do you want to do, Spitelout? We’re out here already.”

“Ah’m no too happy with yeh last performance, lassie,” he grumbled back, “bu’ Stoick’ll have me axe if we don’ at least check it ou’.” He strode over to address Heather directly. “Wha’s the defences of the island like? Any experience fighting dragons?”

“Minimal, and no. Only experience anyone has is before being outcast. There’s nothing there for anyone or anything to want. Most are experienced with a bow, but they don’t know what the Berserkers use on their arrows, those were stolen.” She sounded like she was giving a report. This was the true Heather, with the façade stripped away. Had anything of their friendship been real?

“Well, no harm in checkin’ then, as long as the beastie we have is good to come along.”

“I can guarantee he is,” Tuffnut called over, just his head poking from the hatch to the hold. “Wouldn’t tell him, though. Oh, hey Heather.”

Heather stared at him blankly. “Er… hey.”

“’Hey Heather’? You do realise this is the girl who kidnapped the Furies, right?” Astrid asked him incredulously.

“Yeah I know. But if I get angry I’ll be tempted to let Hiccup up here, and–“ His voice became muffled as he turned back down to the hold, and he adopted that weird smooth voice he always used around the Furies. “Hey! No! No biting. No, making me angry with _you_ doesn’t count. Stop it. Anyway, whatever was on those arrows is messing with him. I’ll let you know when he’s calmed down.”

“Weird,” Fishlegs mused. “Stormfly, Kingstail and Hookfang are basically fine now, just tired, and Meatlug wasn’t affected at all. Why would it affect different dragons in different ways? If it was some kind of mineral, that might explain why a boulder-class…”

Astrid couldn’t really follow his rambles. It didn’t matter anyway, Furies got hit hard, Gronckles were immune. Good to know. “Mind taking over, Spitelout? I need a break…” She didn’t wait for an answer, staggering over to Stormfly – barely resisting the urge to kick Heather’s feet on the way past – and propped herself up against her dragon’s side. Stormfly clucked and offered a gentle nuzzle, then draped a wing over her to shade her from the rising sun.

* * *

The slow, peaceful rocking of the boat was quite pleasant to wake to. Better than the forests on Berserk, better than the aggression and agony of the poison, and better than the earlier pained shrieks.

Dreamer was alone, and it appeared to be night. A perfect time to go out and fly. He climbed the ladder and squeezed himself through the trapdoor, doing his best to lower it quietly.

“Hiccup?”

 _Rats_. He could talk to Fishlegs later, right now he wanted, _needed_ to fly, and ignored him to take off.

It took him a few moments to find his rhythm, being still mostly unfamiliar with his damaged tail, but he got there. He _really_ hoped it could be corrected, he might not be grounded but he was definitely crippled.

Even still, he was _flying_ , just for the fun of it, and it felt _glorious_. With nothing to echo against, his long and joyous roar was swallowed up by the night, but it was satisfying nonetheless.

Between his awkward flapping and atrophied muscles he quickly tired and glided back down to the ship, which was making slow but steady process with the night wind. He noted Stormfly curled up on the deck, he needed to thank and catch up with her at some point but when she wasn’t sleeping.

“Hiccup? It _is_ you, isn’t it?” He huffed in reply. “Can… we talk?” Another huff. If he wouldn’t ask properly, in Dragonese, he wouldn’t get a proper answer. But Fishlegs took it as confirmation and locked the till to open the hatch to the hold, then descended down after him.

It was dark even to Dreamer with the hatch closed, but Fishlegs found and lit a lamp to bathe the open space in a warm light. “I… got a look at your tail while you were out.” Dreamer gave a low croon to that. “B-but aym ssure whe can ket it fixed! Somehow…”

“I have thinking,” he replied. “Maybe Tree-Paws make thing.”

“Tree paw? Gobber?” He was already speaking too quietly for eavesdroppers, but dropped to a murmur. “You can go through me if you want. It wouldn’t be suspicious.”

Dreamer chuffed, then they sat in silence for a little while.

“It was hard,” Fishlegs eventually said. “Nobody else knows. I mean, everyone was devastated Dagur got away with you, but being the only one to know… I don’t even know how to put it to words.”

He looked at Fishlegs. Really _looked_ at him. The boy had lost weight, his eyes had dark bags under them, and he held himself with a weary relief. The way he spoke was much gentler and calmer than usual too. They had been the closest things to friends either of them had had, and now things had become weird between them. Well, they had been weird. Dreamer just felt kind of blank now. His prior issues all seemed petty after Berserk, including everything with Fishlegs.

That led him to a conclusion. “Hey. Not think that. I not him. That Long-Paw dead. I _Dreamer_.” He stood to his fullest, flexing his wings and holding his head proud. “I Nightstriker. This me now. You ask before, if I want be Nightstriker. _Yes_. I much better Nightstriker. I much happier.”

He let out a quiet whine. “I happier with Wanderer…” Something flashed across Fishlegs’ face, a moment of hope lightly tinged with amusement. “…What?” He feigned ignorance. “You know thing. Tell.”

“Uh… Well, Heather was the one who took you, maybe she knows something…?”

Dreamer growled under his breath. “ _Tell. Me._ ”

Fishlegs shuffled uneasily. “I don’t know all the details… If we can get her back to Berk, she can stand trial, and everything will come out then.” That was no lie, but was he still hiding more? It was difficult to tell, he was just generally nervous now. Dreamer sighed. It would all come out when they got back to Berk either way, but the wait would be hard.

They sat in silence for a while longer. “What’s it like, anyway? Being a dragon.”

 _Snort_. One could no more put that to words, particularly in Dragonese, than one could describe being a human. “It good for me. I stronger. Talking easier. Say thing but no words.” He padded forward and thanked Fishlegs properly, with a nuzzle to the face and a rumbling purr. A hand awkwardly patted his neck before he stepped back. “For help free me.”

“Eheh, no problem… So, you’d rather this, even though the likes of Dagur will hunt you to Valhalla?”

Dreamer shrugged. “He hunt me when I Long-Paw too.”

“…Ooh, right, forgot about that. Yeah, you had it pretty rough. It was bad enough for me, but you had it a lot worse.”

“Also when I grow big, can fight. Hard with small body, not thing I could do as Long-Paw.” Then he grinned. “Also, I Nightstriker. After pawful of season-cycles, Long-Paws run, hide, hope I not find them.”

Fishlegs gave a strange chuckle, then paused with an odd reluctance. “I just worked it out. Why this bugged me so much. I’m… envious.”

That took Dreamer _completely_ by surprise. His mouth might have hung open a little.

“Giffen the choys I do’t thinnk I would! Nee’to be able to write, eheh. But… you can go anywhere you want, live wherever you want, you can _fly!_ I mean, we all can, but it’s not the same is it?” Dreamer shook his paw. “Thought not. What are they like, anyway? Your wings?”

 _This_ was the Fishlegs Dreamer had known, someone bubbling with enthusiasm and unwavering curiosity, and he was more than happy to proudly show himself off to this person.

But as Fishlegs tested his strength and delicately stroked the fingers in his wings, he was reminded more and more of Wanderer’s absence, and his enthusiasm quickly waned. They needed to find him. “Sorry, you must be tired,” Fishlegs mumbled dejectedly. “I should get back to the till. You staying down here?”

“No,” Dreamer shook back, and Fishlegs left the hatch open for him to climb out of. He immediately went over to Stormfly, intending to curl up under her wing – but Astrid was already there. _Heh, guess I’m not the only one_ , he chuckled, fondly remembering the nights with Wanderer in the cove.

Stormfly warbled wearily at him, inviting him under, and he happily bundled himself in with the teen.

* * *

The entirety of the rock-hole stank of blood. His own blood, Wanderer knew, drops spattered and smeared here and there over the course of many nights, but it still stank.

It wasn’t even a regular routine. Sometimes he would go up to two whole nights without as much as a single Long-Paw word spoken to him, and some lights he would be put through rounds of commands and punishment with little reprieve. Every part of this grated on him. He had no warning of when the Long-Paw would come, and every moment was spent in dread that it would, but at the same time he waited impatiently as it was only then that he was fed. Enough that he wasn’t losing weight that he could tell, but not quite enough.

He also couldn’t exercise anymore. He had the space to run around a little, but it was now too painful to actually do. Just something else in a long list of grievances that were gradually wearing him down. At least he still had that one tool, carefully hidden from his captors, but they had yet to present him with an opportunity and he would not waste it. He had to admit, he didn’t know what such an opportunity would be.

Laying on his side, watching the clouds drift past overhead. It made his wings ache to be up there, but stretching and flapping them afterwards was almost a good feeling. He took what he could get.

A silhouette lazily wheeled overhead. A Spine-Tail perhaps. One was rare enough, but now there was another one. A pawful, even. This was exciting, and he longingly stared up at them as they drifted around. He cocked his head as they all came together in a hover. That was very strange, hovering was an extremely inefficient way to fly and no wing-hunter would do so without reason.

They swooped down and out of sight. Wanderer considered flying up to the metal web to see if he could catch a glimpse of where they were going, but decided against it. Wing-hunters were dangerous to fledglings, particularly injured ones.

Strange sounds pricked his ears. Long-Paw shouts, loud enough to echo off the large jagged rock that shadowed the rock-hole. A raid? No, not during the light, and there weren’t enough hunters. He allowed himself to hope for an opportunity, but expected none. With his dwindling will, he couldn’t afford to be too disappointed.

It was hard to adhere to that commitment when the despicable greedy Long-Paw entered the rock-hole. “ _Come_ ,” it barked at him, and he pointedly yawned back at it, though inwardly he was cringing. But the Long-Paw didn’t hold the tail of the binding around his neck, and it looked impatient. It strode towards him, which didn’t bode well. There was no point in running, but he couldn’t help flattening himself to the ground. He didn’t want to know what was coming next.

Surprisingly, he was picked up, the binding was carefully removed, and a foreleg looped around under his own to pin him to the Long-Paw’s side as they moved to the exit of the rock-hole. Could this be his opportunity? It had not slipped up yet, but he would be ready for if it did.

The metal of the tunnel-mouths clanged loudly against the stone and rang painfully in Wanderer’s head, but they were leaving. He was happy to be somewhere that did not smell of blood, though the stench of dirty Long-Paw that permeated everything else wasn’t really an improvement.

A Spine-Tail swooped down, Wanderer hearing it more than seeing it, to burn a swathe of ground. There were suddenly a lot of panicked Long-Paw sounds coming from everywhere, but not from the one carrying him. It stayed in the shadows, moving quickly and quietly from tunnel to tunnel.

The sounds of fighting became distant as they descended into a tunnel with little light, and the smell of salt drifted up on the air. Sounds of water lapping against stone soon followed. The Long-Paw had still not slipped up.

It would not, he realised, it was too careful. By the time he was likely to get an opportunity, he would already be trapped again. There had to be something he could do.

The tunnel wasn’t all that big… not quite wide enough to stretch his wings, but it should be enough. He took a deep breath, and let out a deafeningly loud shrieking roar that echoed up and down the tunnel.

A paw flew to his face to silence him.

 _Snick_.

His fangs, having been constantly worked against the hard sheaths in his gums, shredded into the wrist of the foreleg – where he could see the soft flesh, this time. He twisted and yanked, ripping the paw free and finally eliciting an agonised scream from the vile creature. It was an extremely satisfying sound.

The foreleg around him loosened, and he struggled free to crumple to the floor. The paw tasted bad, but he swallowed it just to spite its previous owner before painfully pushing into the air. The tunnel was even narrower than he’d thought, though quite steep and he was able to half-glide down without too much trouble.

It opened out into a respectably large sea cave, illuminated by the sky-fire shining through a tall and narrow fissure.

Freedom.

He beat the air and rolled out into the open sky, then stretched his wings to their fullest and sighed in fierce relief as the wind caressed his whole body.

The distant call of a Spine-Tail quenched his enthusiasm. He needed to leave, but he could see nothing on the water and his strength was very limited. First he needed to work out where he was, but that meant flying above this small-land to see if he recognised it. Right into the path of the raiding wing-hunters.

The Spine-Tail called out again, _concern, worry, hope_ , it said. _Storm-Fly!_ The overjoyed roar he’d been holding in burst out, and he let it sound without restraint as he angled his wings into the wind to soar high into the sky. He quickly spotted her and roared again, and they desperately flew for each other and looped merrily in the air.

 _Understanding, trepidation, worry_ , shouted the Long-Paw on her back, and she started flying with a little less wild enthusiasm. An explosion from below got their attention and Storm-Fly let out another roar; _relief, finished, away_ , it said. Then she tried to grab him out of the air, but his instincts took over and angled him out of the way. He was a bit big for that. Hrrr, though avoiding the landing would be appreciated, and he wouldn’t be able to fly for any great distance in this condition. After he’d had his fun, at least.

* * *

_Frolicking in the warm waters with her siblings, running and playing with claws clicking on the stones. Sire and Dam teaching them all to fly – that one sister who kept getting distracted and falling out of the sky. Sleeping in a warm pile under Dam’s wings. Chewing Sire’s horn, and perching on his neck to peer through his crest. Squeaking indignantly when he occasionally flattened it to squash her against him._

A clacking sound, one that often preceded commands. She was already staring at the source, waiting. There was no reason to be looking anywhere else.

The female. No commands for now.

_Dam preening her, showing her how to preen herself and–_

Another Long-Paw, unfamiliar, barking into the den over the commotion outside. That was _almost_ a command.

The frail Long-Paw making to leave with the female and the new one. _That_ was a command. Her body creaked and groaned as it sprung to obey, but then a sound rang painfully in her ears. A punishment? It was followed by more pain, a wetness that spread down her neck and beckoned to a peaceful darkness.

Had she got it wrong? These… commands were complicated, but… she was sure… she’d got… it… right…

* * *

The hold was a peaceful place to sleep after the forests of Berserk. Dreamer remembered thinking wistfully of sleeping in the warm sunlight, but now he just wanted somewhere dark and cozy to curl up. Tucked under Stormfly was perfect, but when she was up and about then in amongst the barrels carelessly stacked against the wall worked well enough.

Safe and protected like this, he was doing a lot of sleeping and resting to recover, but the hard thumps on the deck above roused him and pricked his ears. There was quite a lot of commotion, and then the ship lurched as the sail was presumably hoisted. _Something_ was happening.

He tumbled out of his nook and stretched, then cocked his head at the pained cries coming from above. Someone was hurt, and he couldn’t work out who. It was hard to make out over the din the dragons were making.

Nosing the trapdoor open a crack, he peeked out across the deck. The dragons, with riders still on their backs, were huddled at the other end of the boat – Hookfang was actually crouched over the prow – and all chattering _excitement, relief_. Strange, given the pained human cries, but they were coming from elsewhere. There was a new woman propped up against the mast with a stump for a shoulder, wrapped in crude and bloody bandages, being seen to by Spitelout and Heather.

Since the poison had worn off he no longer wanted to tear the girl limb from limb, but he still growled at her.

 _Desperate, hopeful_ , came a terse croon.

A cool tension crept down Dreamer’s back, and he crept out onto the deck… “Wanderer…?”

“ _Dreamer!?_ ”

A long whine left his mouth, and then he was rushing at the dark shape that scrabbled out of the huddle. They didn’t even slow down, crashing into each other with a force he felt to his _tail_ that hurt quite a lot but he didn’t care and just whimpered and grappled and chewed and whined and _purred_ his relief as Wanderer did the same.

Time passed in a blur. His surroundings and what everyone else was doing, whether they watched, never even occurred to him. He had no idea how long it had been, but his throat ached and his tail stung from slapping against the deck for so long. The teeth in his ear didn’t really hurt, and he was grateful for them. No doubt Wanderer felt the same about the teeth in his leg.

Their stories were very different now, and Dreamer ached with both happiness and sadness as he breathed the warm and familiar scent and sifted out the new parts. A strong musk of tension and fear, bitter blood, almost-bad fish, and ropes. The scents, each speaking of their own poor treatment, also smelled stagnant and stale. He decided to fix what Stormfly had apparently started, beginning with the leg he was still chewing.

…Wait… There was something wrong here. The leg was being held strangely. Now he was looking, it only took him a moment to notice the claws were short and blunt. He whined sadly and made to lick them, but Wanderer pulled the paw away and tucked it to his chest with the others. There was a similar whine as he felt a nose sniff at one of his arrow wounds, and then a warm tongue drag over it.

“Dreamer… You have many fight-hurts,” his friend crooned. It was the first thing either of them had said.

“Not fight hurts…” he lifted his wing to reveal the rest on that side, and the rawer ones found themselves being tended to. “From… flying-Long-Paw-claw, make sickness.” He sighed as the enquiring nose brushed against his neck. “They from land-hunters, Long-Paw use for hunt.” Wanderer made a confused sound.

But that wasn’t even close to the worst of it. He lowered to the ground with trepidation, and swung his tail around. Wanderer’s pained wheeze was hard to bear; he had his own experience with a damaged tail. “I still can fly, but not good. But I think it can be good again, have thought. Not worry,” Dreamer reassured him. But something was niggling at him. “Your claws, bad also… You have more hurt…?”

Wanderer looked aside, ashamed, then opened his mouth and unsheathed his teeth. They were half as long as they should be. It didn’t explain why he smelled so strongly of blood though, both his and another’s.

“How…? No, we tell all. Talking about bad makes bad better…” But Wanderer only looked guilty at that. Dreamer nudged his snout with his own, and his friend sighed and reluctantly held a paw up.

Dreamer _whined_. The pad on the bottom was _shredded_ , dozens of cuts lacing over and through older ones. Not accidental, not defensive, but methodical and intentional. Bounding over the deck had re-opened some of them, so Dreamer returned the favour and treated it. It was really just one big wound at this point. And the way the other paws were held… He gently teased them out and treated them as well.

“I do him worse,” Wanderer chuffed proudly. “I _eat_ his paw.” He then laughed.

As good as it was to hear that laugh, Dreamer gagged a little. He still remembered that taste. _Blegh_. Sure, he was licking Nightstriker hurts now, but that wasn’t the same as eating it.

Wanderer recounted his story, how he’d lost his claws and teeth and how he tried to fight, that he nearly lost his thinking; a terrifying notion. Dreamer told his own tale, how Dagur had hunted him over and over with trap, arrow and dog until he broke himself out of the bindings, but found his tail had been too damaged by them to fly far.

“Wanderer,” he whimpered quietly when he finished. “Teach me how fight…”

“Yes,” Wanderer replied with a relieved and slightly pained laugh.

* * *

The Hooligans were all anxious to be home, but they were not Berserkers and did not row through the night, so without any real wind the anchor was dropped and everyone got some rest.

Nearly everyone. “Fly!” Dreamer was implored by an impatient Wanderer, and they happily took to the sky. Wanderer roared his delight much as Dreamer had a few nights ago, spinning, flipping and rolling in his mastery of the air. It tempered Dreamer’s own excitement of flying a little, being so limited as he was, but he was still happy to be in the air and truly happy for his friend.

Their experiences, so similar in many ways, but mirrored in others. Dreamer was crippled in the air, Wanderer on the ground. It was good to see him moving properly again, even with the pang of envy that came with it.

“Come,” Wanderer barked at him once they’d had their fun, and they glided down to a nearby sea stack from where the boat was visible a short distance away. Their bodies were still hot with exertion, but there was a crisp and chill north wind that bit into their scales and encouraged them to huddle together. A pleasantry they had been denied for too long.

“I learn fight now?” Dreamer asked, taking long breaths to slow his panting

Wanderer gave a low purr, but shook his paw. “I will teach, but not this night. You know much, just need do, but I not can teach with these hurts.” They sat and watched the boat, the only thing in sight on the endless water. “You live through much bad this last sky-ice-cycle.” It wasn’t a question, so Dreamer said nothing. “I think… I can tell you. Tell you how hatch again.”

Dreamer’s ears went up and he spun on his friend. “Now!?” he squeaked. “Why now?”

“Nightstrikers told when firelings. I think that because fledgling can think life hard, but not understand true hard life. Maybe you understand before… as Long-Paw. Now you understand as Nightstriker also.

“I tell you what Sire tell me. He say ‘Seasons you have lived, survive again.’ Hatching again gives new body… but body new, small, defenceless. It not thing you want do.” He brushed Dreamer’s tail fins with his own. “You say you not want live on that small-land,” he said quietly, with a hint of a whine. “If you have way for fix tail fins?” Dreamer rocked his head thoughtfully, lamenting not knowing sooner if only for another option, then barked when Wanderer thumped him with his tail. “ _That_ why I not tell. You not survive as hatchling. When you first have good thinking last season-cycle?”

… _Oh_. He had a point. There was no way Dreamer could have survived long enough to build up the strength to fly again. Or even think rationally again. It wouldn’t have been an option at all.

“Need good thinking for if do, but thinking hard as fledgling. This not easy flight from bad thing. Maybe I still not should tell… but you need know. Hrr, but maybe we not can make not-egg until bigger. I not know.”

“Not-egg?” Dreamer warbled, simultaneously eager to get on with the explanation but also dreading hearing the answer.

“Yes,” Wanderer chuffed. “Make new body, but not in egg. It… hard explain. When grounded, when need, can do. Just need want. Easy when grounded.” Or, maybe, as an emotional fledgling hating himself for what he was… Yeah it was probably for the best he wasn’t told earlier. “Eight-and-eight nights for body to grow.”

Wait… “But when I die, you not have–“ The realisation hit him. _He hadn’t actually been needed_. Wanderer would have been capable of flying away on his–

The tail smacked him again. “Bad thought,” Wanderer grumbled. “Alone-pain much more bad than grounding. I had new body, but wanted fly with you.”

“I not see not-egg,” Dreamer attempted to get back on track, wiping cool saliva onto the new bruise on his head.

“Not lay not-egg, just hatch,” Wanderer chuckled, but then wilted a little. “It sound more bad when I say…”

“So what you not want me see… in hatching-den…”

 _Chuff_. “My old body. It… not will smell good now. Not good thing for see.”

Really, Dreamer should have seen that coming. Fishlegs had told him his own body had been given a send-off, logic dictated Wanderer’s body would have remained as well. He’d not known what to expect upon learning all this, but this talk was much more macabre than he’d imagined.

It was actually reassuring that no weird magic was involved… even if the truth of it was a _little_ disturbing. Nobody else was in danger of spontaneously becoming a Night Fury by hanging around them, anyway. It had been hard enough for him, he doubted anyone else could have survived it. Maybe Fishlegs. “You hatch two? That thing we can do?”

“I not know how, just do. Maybe because you in first body. It not matter.” He purred and nuzzled Dreamer. “I happy I do.”

“I happy also,” Dreamer purred and nuzzled back.

“Just know, you hatchling, fledgling. That mean body, thinking, instinct, all. New body want sire, dam, that why need you-me-you much. Also sensitive, not mature. Also not can mate.”

 _…Thank you, I could have gone several more years without needing to know that particular word_ , Dreamer sighed to himself, its definition blatant by the literal nature of Dragonese.

…

The blood rushed to his head. “I hatched again. I can make new body. We live _always!?_ ” Immortality was _not_ one of the advertised perks of being a Nightstriker!

Wanderer laughed, low and guttural. “No thing live always. Live until… not want live. When had long life, ready for not live. If something not kill us first.”

That was… slightly less daunting than _forever_. He wondered what Berk would look like in a hundred, two hundred years. Maybe he would find out. The teens, Gobber, Stoick, would all be long gone by then.

But it put something into a sobering perspective. He nuzzled into Wanderer, shuffling closer with a happy purr. _Neither_ of them would be alone for this journey.

* * *

Wanderer felt strange upon seeing the enormous and familiar mountain rising in the distance. It was his current home, but the only thing really holding him there was Dreamer who was not currently there. Still, he was looking forward to sleeping in the safety and familiarity of their new den, swimming in the lake in the cove, even playing with the innocent and playful Long-Paw hatchlings.

As much as he was looking forward to it however, Dreamer was clearly much more impatient to be back, standing on the tip of the floating-tree-thing where he squeaked excitedly. Wanderer couldn’t blame him; the occasional squeak made it out of his own mouth.

Normally they would just fly ahead, but Dreamer’s flying was not good. This worried Wanderer, but Dreamer was confident it could be corrected. They would at least be better prepared if needed, but it would not be good to need to hatch again so soon. Wanderer himself already felt he’d spent more time as a fledgling than as a fireling and adult, and he was impatient to grow. That wasn’t the way this flight should be flown.

Wrrr, there was nothing he could do about it. He just had to enjoy what he had, and he would get there eventually.

He noted a growing crowd of Long-Paws on the clifftop, apparently eager for their return, foremost of those Dreamer’s sire; his enormous stature and ridiculous face-fur were easy to pick out. As the floating-tree-thing neared, and presumably they spotted Dreamer standing on the front as he was, shouts of jubilance carried over the wind. Wanderer would prefer a quiet reception, but he supposed there was nothing he could do about this either.

This was excruciatingly slow though. How did Long-Paws stand to travel this way all the time? He could have flown there and back a pawful of times since the island had become visible. Dreamer eventually grew impatient himself and launched into the air, moving awkwardly but still much faster than the floating-tree-thing. Wanderer was with him on that wind, and winged up next to him.

Wingbeats behind them indicated the Two-Head, Flame-Scale and Rock-Scale following suit, the two Spine-Tails remained behind presumably to guide the floating-tree-thing back. The others made short time of the remaining distance and landed out of sight. As Wanderer and Dreamer neared and flew above the small-land it was clear they’d set up a safe clearing for them to land in, in which the Nightstrikers set down; Wanderer doing so very gently.

Dreamer’s sire entered the clearing to stand with the young Long-Paws, and again all hunched and spread their forelegs in _welcome_. It was difficult to get a read on the big Long-Paw’s expression, but he looked relieved. The two Nightstrikers lowered their heads a little in _humility_ , and then padded forward. Wanderer had known this was coming, and was fully prepared to mimic Dreamer’s heartfelt reunion with his sire regardless of how he felt himself – but to his surprise, his friend-mate only reared up to nuzzle the proffered hand, and happily accepted some head scratches.

That was all Wanderer wanted, but given his resolve to do more it was a bit of a let-down. He nearly asked Dreamer about it, but remembered one of the Long-Paws present would understand and didn’t know their origin. He would ask later.

The big Long-Paw kneeled and murmured sympathetically as he eyed the hurts over Dreamer, who looked away abashedly, then offered Wanderer a warm smile; there was no point showing off his own hurts. Dreamer’s sire then shouted _relief, joy, welcome_ , into the crowd, promising food and celebration, and _that_ was a wind Wanderer would fly happily.

This light they would feast, after which they would sleep much… and then it was finally time to get Dreamer fighting properly.

* * *

_Danger!_

Dreamer snapped to alertness and scrabbled back to wedge himself into a corner, eyes wildly trying to take everything in and failing to see anything. He huddled there, gasping for breath and desperately trying to make sense of his surroundings before they could take him again.

A calm but worried croon rolled over him as a wide tongue glided up his face, and he blinked. Wanderer would not lick him if either of them was in danger. Wait, Wanderer?

Awareness crept back in. He wasn’t on Berserk anymore. He wasn’t even in a forest. _Just a dream_ … Wanderer coaxed him away from the wall and wrapped him up, humming _safe, secure, protect_. Dreamer gradually relaxed, his breathing slowing, it was difficult to argue with the wordless promises purred into his ears…

He was just drifting off when it happened again, though being slightly more lucid his reaction was less severe; still wide awake and tense, breathing hard, but at least he hadn’t scrabbled away in a panic.

Wanderer warbled thoughtfully. “Stay, I come back,” he murmured as he rose, then padded to the entrance of their den and disappeared into the pre-dawn light with a rush of wings. He returned a few minutes later and wrapped Dreamer up again, resuming his comforting humming and purring.

His breath smelled of feathers. That was strange. But Dreamer slept soundly after that.

* * *

The ways Wanderer had been trying weren’t working, that was clear. He hadn’t wanted to pressure Dreamer about it, but now that he had _asked_ to be shown Wanderer would not hold back. And the first step was asking Dreamer how he _wanted_ to be taught, what would work for him.

And he’d admitted… he didn’t know. So that went back to Fish-Legs, while they had still been travelling, and Wanderer had sat patiently in the belly of the floating-tree-thing while he and Dreamer talked about it. The conclusion they’d reached, and would now be putting into practice, was something Wanderer didn’t entirely agree with.

“Slow,” Dreamer reminded him, as if he’d forgotten.

Wanderer rolled his eyes, then grunted a challenge. The paw moved slowly through the air, and he moved just as slowly to avoid it. This was silly, he could not jump or dart around this slowly so this was not a true fight, but he would try it. These weren’t normal circumstance, and normal methods wouldn’t or hadn’t worked. He was desperate.

The young Long-Paws and their nest-friends were with them on the grassy area, initially watching in amusement but quickly moving on to doing their own things. Understandable, this was probably quite boring to watch. Except for Fish-Legs, who kept a close eye while making lines in his Long-Paw-thing.

They picked up the pace and moved a bit faster, Dreamer focusing on the offensive – that was key to winning any fight. Nightstrikers struck fast and won quickly, focusing on defence was just a slow way to die. Defending was important, but secondary.

Dreamer was quickly showing, however, that he knew more than he’d ever let on. He was focused, somehow taking this very seriously, and – once they were moving fast enough – used his weight efficiently. As they picked up the pace, faster and faster, Wanderer began having a much harder time keeping him back.

“Fast now,” Wanderer offered, taking a defensive stance, and Dreamer chuffed. The Long-Paws went silent as they started watching again; interesting that Dreamer didn’t seem to mind that now.

Dreamer darted to the side, Wanderer spun to face him and was attacked while his stance was off. He was barely able to block, and dodging the next strike with only one forepaw on the ground tore some of his cuts open, a minor irritant. He was rammed and sent stumbling back, but trying not to go overboard to do himself further injury, and without attacking, he was quickly overwhelmed. Sounds of _joy, congratulations_ sounded out as Dreamer removed his teeth from his neck.

Wanderer huffed. Dreamer clearly knew how to attack, so that wasn’t the problem. At least this next exercise would be easier on his paws, as he would be the one controlling the fight as Dreamer defended. This was where he expected to find problems.

Again they started their slow fight, and the Long-Paws grew bored and went back to their own tasks. Again, Dreamer quickly showed he was capable of blocking and dodging, and he could find no real fault in technique, at least not while moving slowly.

He huffed again. “I think this stupid, you not learning.”

“It giving me time to see, think, know how I should react,” he replied. “I think it good.”

“You not think for fight. Know where strike, not get struck. Not have time for think.”

Dreamer shrugged. “I think now, I not need think later.”

Rolling his eyes with a huff, Wanderer took his stance again. “Fast now,” he grunted, growing impatient, then lunged with a snarl–

–and froze.

His teeth snapped back into his gums as he stared, one paw still in the air. “Too fast,” Dreamer muttered, then blinked a few times and eyed him back curiously. “What?”

How had he not seen it before? But he had to be sure. His teeth slid back out and he curled his lips in another growl, leaning forward–…

And Dreamer, though more subtly, reacted the same way.

_Stupid_

Memories flashed in his mind. How had he not _seen_ this before? It had always been right there in front of him, every time he took the fight seriously, and every time he had only abused it.

_Stupid!_

The confusing teeth-hurts on his neck; only on his neck, nowhere else.

_How am I this STUPID!?_

Chastising Dreamer for crouching too readily, giving up his height. Not crouching. _Flinching. Cowering._ Offering an easy win. _Why?_

Dreamer shook his head again and rose, then warbled in concern. Wanderer barely noticed.

More memories. Back in the cove, Long-Paw Dreamer limping in after losing fights with nest-kin. _I not fighter_.

His vision dimmed at the edges as his eyes narrowed, showing him every detail of his Dreamer in excruciating detail; the slight tremble, how his tail was twisted on itself, his hunched posture to appear small and harmless. _He submit to end fight because he expect he lose_.

Something wasn’t right about that. _Dreamer, distraught, limping into the cove. Losing the fights upset him greatly._ No, he _wanted_ to lose the fight, didn’t want to fight all. It wasn’t _losing_ that upset him, it was the fight _itself_. It wasn’t his choice to fight.

It wasn’t even a fight.

Again and again.

_Unforgivable_

Wanderer snorted the scents from his nose, digging deep into his memories. So vividly he recalled them that he even felt the pain of his missing tail fin. _Focus_. Surely, at some point… _There_.

And now he felt _really_ stupid. The signs were all there. He shouldn’t have needed the lingering scents on Dreamer’s hurts. Always the same scents.

Wanderer lifted his head and turned.

_UNFORGIVABLE!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make it obvious, and it's not even an original theme (though I've yet to see it used outside a one-shot) but nobody mentioned anything even close. So no names to show here. On an unrelated note, I had slightly too much fun writing the start of the next chapter.
> 
> Now, the not-egg scene has actually been sat in my folder since I tore it out of chapter 4. It felt out of place where it was, too soon, and I realised it would have negative effects on what I had planned with Dagur. So I decided to postpone it to the end of the first arc (which might be another ten or so chapters). However, when I finished the Berserk plot and started the reunion, I could no longer give Wanderer enough of a reason to hold it back, and it has been a bit drawn out already. So there you have it.
> 
> This was my initial inspiration for this story, funnily enough; "How could a dragon Hiccup fic work without magic?" was the question I started with. If this answer to that question sounds convenient, know that I reached the same conclusion and we'll revisit it in the third and four arcs - though it does not play a huge part in the plot, it is still important. When I added that answer (plus the ideas supporting it) to a bunch of other stuff I wanted to see, the overall premise and early chapters came together quite easily.
> 
> As much as I don't want to leave you guys hanging on this for two weeks, though, there's no guarantee the next chapter will be ready in time. I'll try, if it's done I'll post it, but then after that I definitely need to catch up again.


	20. Redress

It was a natural sound, one of wilderness. A rockslide, rumbling down the mountain. A wildfire, splintering trees and consuming the foliage. Thor’s lightning, splitting the sky and echoing into the distance. It was all these sounds rolled into one, a mix of them and also something in between. Even a human, so far removed from nature, could easily understand its meaning.

_Death_

The sound needled at the back of Snotlout’s neck. The skies were clear, and there was no nearby mountain or forest. Not that it was likely that Ragnarok had started behind his back. He turned slowly, unsure of what he would find.

The sight that met him did not put him at ease; quite the opposite. The way Toothy moved was slow and measured, keeping perfect balance and coiled to spring in any direction. Prowling forward, his bared teeth gleaming in stark contrast to his black scales. But it was the eyes locked to his, the tranquil forest green marred with a fierce red gradient, that said more than anything else and locked any placating words in everyone’s throats.

Toothy was going to kill him.

It didn’t really occur to Snotlout to ask why at this point. Two years of peace was a long time, but fifteen years of war and fear was far too much to ever overcome completely. This wasn’t playful little Toothy in front of him right now. This was a _Night Fury_ , the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself, and it was _furious_. Snotlout, and everyone else, took an instinctive step back.

“ _Oh…!_ ” Fishlegs’ exclamation had some sort of deep realisation to it. “Snotlout!”

The tension snapped. Toothy began loping forward, and Snotlout backpedalled as fast as he could; he was _not_ turning his back to this thing! As he moved he fumbled for his axe and held it out, but it felt like a toothpick against the weight of what was bearing down on him and he almost immediately forgot he was holding it.

A draconic shout sounded over the din, and Hiccup bounded around to stand defensively between them, but a sound akin to the snapping of every tree in the forest had him skidding back out of the way.

Some low rise in the ground caught Snotlout’s heel, and he landed on his rear. Toothy surged forward, appearing almost liquid in how he moved, and the axe was dropped as teeth bit into the arm holding it. Snotlout screamed, his other arm still propping him up and somehow unwilling to move with Toothy’s weight bearing down on him. More pain erupted down his front as claws shredded through the flesh, and a cold chill swept through him as blood soaked into his shirt. That was it, it was only a matter of time now.

Something black collided with the dragon on top of him, the clamping pressure of the jaws loosening just enough that they left the arm intact as the pair tumbled away. Snotlout held it to his chest, growling through his clenched teeth and shuffling back.

The two dragons fought, snarling and clawing, until Toothy landed a solid hit on Hiccup’s head – and hesitated. Hiccup straightened and, seeing his motionless opponent, thrust his wings out and _screeched_. There was a huff, and Toothy took to the air and quickly vanished.

Snotlout stared after him until he was sure he wouldn’t return, then lay back with a groan. He never thought he would enter Valhalla this young, but when Odin called…

“Oh Thor, Snotlout, we need to get you to Gothi!” The voice of a Valkyrie? Nay, it was Astrid; close enough.

“There’s nothing she can do,” he said levelly. A calmness had settled over him and he barely felt the deadly wounds down his front, that was something he was told happened. He hoped the sight wasn’t too gory though, he wanted to cut a fine, respectable figure on his pyre.

“Stop being so dramatic and get up,” she snapped back. Hey, come on, Vikings were tough but with all his insides hanging out like–

Oh, he really _was_ fine. _Wha…?_ He lifted his head and poked a finger through his shirt, finding only shallow scratches… It took him a few moments to remember Toothy’s claws had been blunted. He wasn’t sure if Toothy himself had remembered that, and silently thanked the Outcasts; they had probably just saved his life.

Though now he looked like a complete fool. “Well, if you insist,” he sighed, trying to salvage some of his dignity, and pulled himself upright. Before he had a chance to stand, however, he found himself flinching away from Hiccup. The smaller Fury was an image as far from aggression as a dragon could manage, but his interest in his arm was worrying. More so when he licked the wound. “Hey, get off.” He pushed the dragon away and stood, wincing in pain. The wounds were all rather minor, including the bite, but there were a lot of them, and even blunted the claws had left his shirt in bloody ribbons.

He took a few steps towards the healer’s hut, but then stopped and turned back. “Why, huh?” he asked Fishlegs. “What was that all about!?” to Tuffnut. “ _Why?_ ” at Hiccup in Dragonese.

“ _Sorry_ ,” Hiccup offered back, but the two teens just stared blankly.

“Whatever!” Snotlout gave a frustrated wave of his good arm as he spun and stalked away.

* * *

“…What _was_ that about!?” Astrid exploded at Fishlegs the moment Snotlout had disappeared from sight.

“Um, uhh, hhhow would I know…?” he tried.

She got up into his face. “No. No playing dumb today. We gave them hospitality, remember? Do you know what that _means? Well!?_ ” Odin probably wouldn’t smite a dragon, but that wasn’t the problem; if the dragons themselves didn’t observe it then it wouldn’t protect them, quite the opposite.

“ _Stop!_ ” he shouted, then pushed her away as he stepped back. “You think this is easy!? Every time someone has a dragon problem, they expect me to know all the answers, but I’m just guessing most of the time! Even this, I _might_ know, but it’s a wild guess and I can’t tell you either way!”

They stood and stared at each other in shock for a few moments, then both turned away at the same time. “Just give me some time to think and talk it over with them,” he said more placidly.

“…Okay. Sorry, I guess we’re all a bit stressed…” Completely removing her from Chiefing duties was supposed to help her _relax_ , but it was doing anything but. At least now she had something to do; work out a loophole for Toothy, so they could try to reach a reasonable resolution.

“…I’m not stressed,” Tuffnut said plainly, then cried out as Ruffnut stood on the back of his knee and clobbered him. Pity that wasn’t a full-time job, she was very good at it.

Astrid eyed him as he groaned into the grass. “Alright then, what’s your take on it?”

He shrugged. “Eh. Toothy is pretty straightforward, I’d say he had a good reason. Can’t tell you what it is though. Hiccup looks like he might know, but he’s too unsure about it to say. Let him talk it over with Fishlegs. We’ve got some time before Toothy comes back anyway.”

Time. That was something Astrid _didn’t_ have. “Alright, fine. I’m going to try to handle this, but we can’t just ignore it either, so keep me posted.”

She headed to Gothi’s hut, racking her mind for anything of use. Whichever way she looked at it, Toothy had attacked and injured Snotlout, though not all that badly it seemed; the bigger problem was dissuading any rumours about an unprovoked attack by a dragon under hospitality. The most she could try to do was leverage it against Snotlout’s own prior attack on Hiccup, though it was weak. It was still the best she had as she climbed the stairs up to the hut.

The tiny old woman, in the midst of applying a balm to a shirtless Snotlout, looked pleased to see her and gestured to her staff. On one hand, a little more time to think, on the other hand, getting Gobber involved might complicate things. She couldn’t refuse anyway, and promptly fetched him.

“Hmm,” the smith mused as he inspected Snotlout, already bandaged up and smelling thickly of leafage, then shuffled over to the sand Gothi had spread over the floor and was now scribbling in. “She says ‘e was attacked by a drunk.” _Whack._ “Ow! A dragon! He was attacked by a dragon. She needs ter know which type so she can treat ‘im fer poison.” _Whack._ “Hey! Wha…? Oh, _venom_. In case it was venomous. Wha’s th’ difference?” _Whack._ “Owww! Come on yeh old hag, ah’m jus’ a blacksmith– alrigh’ alrigh’! Erm, yeah. So?” He had addressed the patient, but Snotlout just looked blankly at Astrid, and then everyone was looking at her.

Why wasn’t he answering? Maybe he just didn’t want to admit to being beaten up by a little dragon with an adorable name like _Toothy_.

The answer hit her, and she took a deep breath so she didn’t try to blurt it all out at once. “Thor, you should have seen him. Things got a bit heated, and one of the Furies put out a challenge. I’ll tell you, that _sound_ …” She shuddered, and it wasn’t even faked. “Let’s just say they live up to the name, _and_ the subtitle. We were all scared _witless_ , but Snotlout had his axe out in a flash! ‘Course, this _was_ still a _Night Fury_ , there’s just no taking one down, you know? I mean, how long would any of us last in the forests of Berserk? But hey, he’s the first Viking I’ve ever seen to walk away from a fight with one.”

Poor, predictable Snotlout. He was way too easy to manipulate, she’d need to get him out of that if he ever wanted to be Marshal. “Yeah, well, it was no big deal,” he said nonchalantly, leaning back on the weathered chair. “Never seen a Night Fury scar before, figured I should get one.”

Gothi rolled her eyes and tapped the end of her staff onto one of the strange glyphs she communicates in. “Is ‘e _venomous?_ ” Gobber asked, putting particular emphasis on the word, then watched Gothi scratch some more glyphs. “If ‘e is, we’re gonna need some _venom_.”

“Uhh… You know, I’m not actually sure. I don’t think so. I can get some from Hiccup if they are, it doesn’t have to be from the same dragon, right?”

“I’ was Toothy? How could ‘e be venomous, he aint even got teeth!”

“Tell that to my arm,” Snotlout shot at him, and they glared at each other.

Astrid grinned, fondly remembering Stoick’s – and her own – reaction nearly a year ago. “They both do, they can just sheathe them so it usually looks like they don’t.”

“They can _wha’?_ ” Gobber stared off into the distance for a moment. “Ah’m gonna _kill_ Tuffnut,” he mumbled before hobbling off down the steps.

* * *

Heather grimaced the disdain in Stoick’s eyes as looked down on her mother. She was in a wretched state, even compared to normal with her arm bitten off at the shoulder as it was now. None of the Vikings were sympathetic about it, or to their story. They might have been if she’d been open with them in the first place, but would things have turned out any better?

Maybe, maybe not. Either way, she could only do what she always had; move forward. At least she’d been able to – forced, even – explain and apologise, but she had a feeling it was less that and more the whims of the two Furies that had avoided her the death penalty. The way Stoick stroked his axe whenever he looked at her made his opinion very clear.

She glanced back at him as her little boat pulled out of the harbour, the very figure of a Viking Chief. Half as tall again as most Vikings, twice as wide, and with a fanning beard as long as her arm. The Night Fury draped over his shoulder was overkill, really, particularly with all that Alvin had done in unsuccessfully trying to get one to cooperate with him.

Berk would definitely be a place to keep an eye on–

No, she didn’t need to think like that anymore. Right now, all she wanted to do was sail home, plead with the lord to return their land and possessions, and live some semblance of a normal life. And that was exactly what she was going to do.

* * *

Wings burning with exertion and occasionally grunting in effort, Dreamer hobbled through the air over the main island. He was wary, because if another dragon decided he might be a tasty snack he would have more trouble evading, but was confident enough to dive down into the trees at least. Hopefully the device Gobber was working on would set him right, but it would take time and he wouldn’t be able to fly at all while it was on. Something for the winter, which was fast approaching.

For now, he needed to find Wanderer. At least he had a pretty good idea of where he would hang out for two days. On the other paw, this was going to be an awkward conversation.

He got there eventually and glided down to their little beach, then padded up into the cave. A dark figure at the back lifted its head at his arrival, but nothing was said, even when Dreamer approached and lay down in front of him.

The silence stretched out. Wanderer was clearly pleased to see him, but there was a lot more going on as well; _uncertain, angry, hurt, relieved, disappointed_ , and a storm of other muddied cues mixing with and garbling each other. Dreamer himself was probably a similar mess, as he couldn’t find any way to broach the topic either. He gave up and tried another approach. “We hunt…?”

_Relief_ overpowered Wanderer’s features at that. “Yes, we hunt. I hungry. Not eat last night…” Dreamer warbled _worry_.

They flapped out of the cave and up to where the boars frequented, then sniffed around for a trail. Dreamer was beginning to worry they’d moved away when Wanderer picked up the faintest trace, and they followed it through the woods; ancient as it was, it would lead them to fresher trails.

It took time to follow the faint and scattered scent, but eventually they were loping along after a fresher trail of a male, adult and likely to be alone. They found it sleeping in a cave, and though they made no sound it snorted its awareness of their presence.

This was not an adolescent, like they had hunted last year, but a fully grown and battle-scarred wild boar. Its long tusks carved through the air as it rose and turned to face them with a squeal of _challenge_. Dreamer glanced at Wanderer, who shrugged and stalked out along the wall of the cave, attempting to flank it.

The boar charged at Dreamer, those tusks promising a painful death, and he jumped over the top of it; with his wings he cleared the danger easily. Their quarry continued running off into the forest with a squeal.

Wanderer and Dreamer shared a look, both snorted “Stupid,” then loped along after it. They easily caught up and shredded its unprotected flanks, then Wanderer pinned it while Dreamer bit through its neck.

The meat was tough and Wanderer took most of the fat for himself, but that was fine. He was the hungrier one, and Dreamer found more flavour in the organs anyway. Vikings always took them out and mixed them with other things or cooked them into pies or sausages, but this way – still warm and bleeding – was much better, if less convenient. He had missed hunting large prey.

Dreamer sat back with a full belly and a sigh, then cleaned himself while he waited for Wanderer. It gave him time to get his thoughts straight. “Why you attack rock-head?” he asked, his tone simply curious, as the bigger and hungrier Nightstriker finished gorging.

“Why you not?” Wanderer growled back, then huffed. “I know why you not. I see your hurts when you Long-Paw.”

That was what Dreamer had suspected, though he still didn’t understand why that was such strong motive. “I forgive him.”

“I not,” Wanderer snarled. “He… I not even have words. For attack a fledgling who not will fight, not _can_ fight. ‘Bad’ not enough.”

“It how our nest work. Fledglings fight for get strong.”

Wanderer stared at him. “You not this stupid. We fight you-me-you for get strong. He fight you for make you strong?”

“…No…”

“No,” Wanderer huffed, satisfied. “We kill him now? You do, my claws–”

“No!” Dreamer growled at his friend. “Kill Long-Paws bad. They think like us. I know, I was Long-Paw!” He groaned. “This not good. Nest want know why you attack him. What we say? I not want leave, but they think you not have reason for attack, think you bad.” That wasn’t _quite_ true, Astrid had somehow smoothed it over, but she still needed placating herself.

“He deserve more…” Wanderer muttered. “You know why you not can fight?”

“I…” He stared blankly at the ground. For some reason, he was unable to deny it.

His friend padded over with a sad whine and affectionately rubbed against him. “I not like see you hurt, but I not know how fix this hurt…” Another whine, even sadder. “I sorry I not see before. I not think, not see, just take advantage every fight… I very sorry…”

Dreamer hugged him close with a wing. There was something wrong about this, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Either way, Wanderer quickly shook himself out of his sadness and the embrace with a huff. “Tell nest what you want tell. Or not tell, we strong enough for fly to egg-nest for survive cold-season. I not care.” He stared at Dreamer with his ears back. “I not will attack rock-head, or the others, because you forgive, but I not forgive him.”

Well, he supposed he couldn’t ask for more. “Yes. I had talk with Fish-Legs, we think something. But,” he bopped Wanderer with his tail, then waved it, “not can fly to egg-nest. Was hard for fly here.” He spoke over the guilty mumbles. “I good, not worry. Now… I thinking I not seen you for two nights!” He pounced, and they played properly for the first time since they had been taken from the island.

* * *

Staring at but not really seeing it, Dagur turned the heavy dagger over in his hands. His focus, his drive, burned in him stronger than ever now that _both_ of his Night Furies had been stolen away from him. Probably by Berk this time, though nobody had got a good enough look to see if any of the dragons had riders. None of the survivors, anyway.

It didn’t matter. He’d got what he wanted, minus some snazzy additions to his wardrobe, it had just had a very unsatisfying end. How was he supposed to show it his respect now? He’d just need to put what he’d learned to good use instead.

Vella entered his house, and Dagur noted the matching dagger at her belt. “You’ve still got it, good.” She was a very sensible person, he almost never wanted to kill her. “Get my ship ready, we leave at dawn.” He had his full off-island allowance saved up, it might be a while before he was back. “Tell that old wart from the eastern clan to keep his men to himself while he’s gone, or I’ll return the favour tenfold.” Hopefully that would keep him out of trouble while they were gone. Wait, she didn’t know where they were going yet. “Pack for a long trip. Bring my whole retinue.” Not the worthless ones who insisted on following him around, the elite ones hand-picked and answering to him alone.

He also wanted to go over the modifications to his ship one more time, “Send for the carpenter.” Hmm, his control wasn’t the best right now, but he wanted to leave as soon as possible. Best to avoid temptation. “Here, take this.” He held out his axe, hesitated, then remembered not to point it at her as he offered it. It was progress! He should celebrate. Too bad he didn’t drink. Maybe Vella would want to instead. “Want some ale?”

* * *

Astrid eyed the dragon warily, grateful that Stormfly was nearby; not that she didn’t think she could take the Fury, despite what she’d said to Snotlout, but the Nadder’s presence was comforting. At least Toothy didn’t look and sound like he was about to murder anyone anymore, but there was something about his expression that spoke of a deep fury, and much of that was directed at her right now. She had to trick herself into thinking it didn’t make her uneasy.

“So?” she asked levelly, addressing both Furies as she deliberately folded her arms. “Let’s hear it.”

Hiccup said something she only understood half of, and she watched him patiently while Fishlegs translated. “He requests I–“

“Word for word, Fishlegs,” she reminded him without looking away.

“…Sorry. ‘Fishlegs should explain. It would take too long in my language.’”

That tied up to the parts she had caught, though he was still paraphrasing a little, and she’d been more or less expecting it; they’d had days to prepare. She nodded to him.

“Okay. There are certain things that can be… assumed. Nobody’s ever seen a Night Fury in three hundred years, and now we’ve seen three. They’re clearly connected.” Astrid nodded in agreement. “Right. And we know about the first one because of… Hiccup Haddock. With me so far?” She nodded again. “Okay, so when you put those two together…” He held his palms up suggestively.

“…You knew Hiccup?” she asked the Furies. They both chuffed tersely, though she’d asked in Norse. While that was surprising, both the fact and the understanding, “What does that have to do with attacking Snotlout?”

“ _I lick his hurts,_ ” Toothy said with a crackling growl, Fishlegs meekly translating and filling in the gaps in her understanding. _“Many hurts. I had wrong thinking, that he fight._ ” He closed his eyes and let out a tense sigh. “ _But he never want fight. You tell me, if he not fight, he hurt why?_ ”

“This isn’t about me,” she shot back to keep control of the… she supposed it was a trial, of sorts. “This is about you, and you attacking Snotlout. You can’t just attack him for something he did to someone else.”

Toothy kept watching her while Fishlegs translated, however that worked with the visual words, then huffed. _“I have more reason than that rock-head had. Tell me why._ ”

_“You ask him, he tell you,_ ” she growled back directly. “This is still about you, and that isn’t a good enough reason.”

He looked at her incredulously. _“If you not can see what you do, how hurt-sad you make him, I not can explain_.”

“I think something’s lost in translation here, Fishlegs, help me out.” Sure, Snotlout was a jerk, but she couldn’t see why being a jerk to a dead kid was reason to try to claw his guts out.

“Uhh… No, not really? You really don’t get it, do you? No, of course you wouldn’t. You’re _Astrid_.” He scoffed. “You’ve probably never felt helpless in your–“

He was cut off by Hiccup crooning over the top of him, and he visibly restrained himself. “…Sorry.” He said that to Hiccup, not to her, and she was tempted to snap at him that she _had_ been helpless before. Twice! “Let’s just say that when you beat the snot out of someone, when they won’t or can’t fight back, it does bad things to them.”

She didn’t like how they were both implying her involvement. “Let’s get something straight here, I’m the one who risked my honour and axe to get you off easy. I get it, you’re mad at Snotlout, but maybe try to talk it out next time instead of trying to kill him?”

Toothy laughed humourlessly as Fishlegs translated. “ _That not what you do._ ” Before she could object, he held up a paw as if he were holding a torch or something, which he dropped and ‘watched’ fall to the ground. Then he stamped on the rock, which strangely elicited a bark and some fussing over him from Hiccup.

What was _that_ supposed to mean? She glared at Fishlegs, but he shook his head in confusion.

“ _Before you fly with him,_ ” Toothy said while he blankly watched Hiccup lick his paw.

What about it? She’d _kissed_ him after that. So what if she’d… thrown him to the ground, literally walked over him… threw him to the ground _again_ , kicked him… _and_ dropped her axe on him… But she only did that when he deserved it!

_Hypocrite_

She slumped. He’d ‘deserved’ it a _lot_. And Snotlout needed even less of a reason…

“ _Thank you for saving us,_ ” Hiccup chirped, breaking her out of her thoughts. “ _We like here. New den good. Playing good. Much food. But bad happen here, we know. But we fly forward._ ” He nosed his brother. “ _You also._ ” Toothy didn’t look so sure, but didn’t disagree.

Astrid sighed. She still didn’t really get it, but nor could she argue. She was just as guilty as Toothy, and by Snotlout’s own logic Toothy had every right to maim him. She made a note to keep an eye out for this sort of thing in future, these attitudes weren’t healthy. “Alright. Come on girl, I need some air,” she said to Stormfly, then climbed into the saddle and left these tumultuous thoughts on the ground.

* * *

Hindlegs brushing his sagging belly, Dreamer trudged out of the Great Hall and down the village. The quiet night was a stark relief after the noise and stuffiness of the feast, and the air was cool and crisp as winter began threatening to take hold.

He looked up at the sky-sparks in the otherwise empty sky, confirming that dawn was not far off. _That_ moment was approaching. He knew where his paws were taking him, if not why, or how he’d suddenly known.

Before he knew it he was perched on the clifftop, staring at the sky past the catapult that had been rebuilt at some point.

He wondered what Wanderer did at this time, if anything. Did he fly to where he had crash landed and spent half the day immobilised by ropes? Probably not, he was a pragmatic person, most of the time, and though he’d winced at the part of the story where he’d been shot down – this skald had been more animated than the last – he’d seemed quite happy with it all.

Dreamer should feel happy too. He _did_ feel happy, and wouldn’t take any of it back… but he just couldn’t bring himself to celebrate shooting his only real friend out of the sky; permanently, in one way of thinking.

His damaged tail fins found themselves tucked in behind his forelegs. He had an inkling of what that was like now, being grounded, though his case had been and still was much less severe.

Wanderer was his friend only because Dreamer had shot him down and inflicted that terrible injury. That seemed so very, very wrong, even if he was the only one who wasn’t completely fine with it. He was mostly fine with it, as it had broken Wanderer from the queen’s control and led to the end of the war, but that didn’t make the deed any less horrific.

Footsteps approached behind him, and he turned to croon at–… not Stoick, this time, but Astrid.

“Hiccup?” She asked, and he chuffed a reply. “…So you know about this bit too, huh,” she said sombrely. He nearly chuffed again, but remembered at the last moment he wasn’t supposed to understand, and they sat in silence.

“We did give him a hard time,” She said after a while. “More than we should have. It’s not an easy life, being a Viking, but he didn’t seem to get that. It didn’t help that he made it a lot harder for everyone around him too, with all his… weirdness.” A hand groped at his wing and back in the dark, and eventually settled on his head.

What was it about this night that sorely tempted him? She didn’t need to make excuses for herself, she just needed to pick herself up and move on. Getting bogged down in the past never helped anyone, he knew that from experience, but he still couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t do anything more than watch.

Hrrr, she was tough, and would get over it eventually. It was just frustrating. Why couldn’t he just be open about everything? Why couldn’t everyone? All these stupid wars, the senseless killing and pain, all because people failed to see beyond their own noses.

Could he have fixed that, had he remained human? He could have tried at least. Now… he wasn’t sure what he could do. On one paw, he was living proof that dragons weren’t mindless beasts, and he could work from there. On the other paw, he almost needed to break that first preconception before he could even start.

These thoughts were getting him nowhere, he growled at himself and the hand quickly withdrew from his head. Heh, if all else failed he could just kidnap the Chiefs like he and Toothless had done to Astrid. Talk to them in their language, so to speak.

The light of the sky-fire was gradually becoming noticeable. By this point, two years ago, he was being paraded back to his house by Gobber. As if it was his fault the brazier had been burned down and rolled down the village. He huffed, his fatigue starting to catch up to him. Time to return to his den to sleep the day away with what seemed to be the only sensible person in this crazy world. Dreamer padded forward and dropped from the cliff without a sound, leaving Astrid alone on the grass.

* * *

It was a strange and curious thing of metal, like bones but on the outside. Wanderer nosed at it, sniffing and sifting through the strange scents on its various joins, and the fin within it twitched as he brushed the sensitive tip.

More incomprehensible Long-Paw logic, there was no way Dreamer could fly with this thing on his tail – he could barely even lift it from the ground – but it was Dreamer who had thought of it, so it was guaranteed to work. Somehow. Wanderer didn’t need to understand it.

Storm-Fly and the other flying-nest-kin had flown to the egg-nest a pawful of days ago, so the young Long-Paws were downcast. Before the previous cold-season they had played much with the Nightstrikers, but Wanderer was still angry with them. Much more at one of them, but the others too. And he was a little resentful that the problem was being left with him to fix, though he would do so gladly. Things were just awkward and tense all around.

Except with Fish-Legs. It was weird, everything had flipped mid-flight and now he was the casual and comfortable one while everyone else was tense. At least Wanderer understood a bit more of what Dreamer saw in him now.

Wrrr, just a flight of boring and lazy days, then all would be well. He and Dreamer would get big in the warming-season, and they would be able to survive on their own. If they needed to. Some of it did come down to this metal around Dreamer’s tail.

He gave the metal thing another sniff, and licked it for no real reason. _Mmrrr_ , it was tasty… Something of a sharp, tangy flavour that burned the back of his nose, in a good way. He got a few more licks in before Dreamer snatched it away and batted him on the head.

“Not lick that!” he scolded, then inspected the thing carefully.

“But taste good,” Wanderer whined, creeping forward to be fended off with more bats to the head. _Huff_. “You lick.”

“No,” Dreamer huffed, then hesitated. Wanderer could just _see_ the curiosity and temptation on him, and warbled _dare, encouragement_. “…No,” Dreamer repeated, and gave himself a shake. “This let me fly again. Not touch,” he growled. “It… smell maybe-good, yes, but not touch. Flying better. Wait. I stupid, I just get more.” Wanderer bounced happily, eager for a new toy, as Dreamer opened the den-mouth – and jumped back as a lump of ice the size of his paw smashed into the rock outside. “…I get more later.”

_Sympathy, amusement,_ Dreamer’s sire hummed as he walked over to peer outside, then closed the den-mouth. The den was much colder now, with all the cold air that had blown in. Wanderer shivered, then spun and bounded to the fire to dive into it. He whined as he was grabbed from the air, claw-lengths from the flames. _Relief, amusement, warning_ , the big Long-Paw rumbled.

“He say not roll in fire,” Dreamer translated, batting him on the head _again_ ; he was pushing it now. Wanderer growled back at him as the Long-Paw sat down and lay him in his lap, but then groaned and purred as a paw began kneading his back and sides.

He cracked an eye when the den-mouth opened and a frazzled Fish-Legs stumbled in. Wanderer warbled a distracted greeting as he bemoaned at the cold air again, but the fire and Long-Paw body-warmth soon swept away the chill.

Fish-Legs began chattering to Dreamer’s sire, occasionally saying _curious, excitement,_ to the Nightstrikers, though of course Wanderer was the only one to not understand. The sounds were familiar now, but still repetitive and incoherent. “What he saying?” he asked Dreamer, then flexed and whimpered as the paw found an ache under his wing shoulder.

“He say where we nest for cold-season,” Dreamer said as he tried to nose his way into the attention, but Wanderer fended him off. They had nothing but time, and this was his turn. “Hrr, but not with rock-head.” Good.

Nothing but time… Hrrr… He lifted his head to ask Fish-Legs for something, but then the kneading stopped. He swung up to huff at Dreamer’s sire, who chuckled and resumed his ministrations. Nnggg, that was better. He would ask later.

* * *

“How your tail?”

Dreamer didn’t look up, just warbled absently at Wanderer and continued fiddling with the apparatus. “Not know. I think it working. It feel good now.” Gobber had improved on his design – now _that_ was a thought – and used a pin instead of a weld for the tempered iron lengths, so that he could manually open and close the fins to stretch them. A lot more awkward to get on, but then that was something that was only needed once. “I hurt everywhere, but not tail, why?”

“That normal, I think. Growing.” He purred. “Much food in this nest. We grow big, strong.”

Stronger than most Vikings… On top of that, Toothless could have looked his dad in the eye, and they would both grow at _least_ that big by the sound of it. _So weird_.

Either way, he’d have Midgard’s strongest tail by the time winter ended. Dragging the iron apparatus around was exhausting, not for its weight but because it was at the end of his tail which made it heavier, and it kept catching on floorboards and corners. There were so many reasons he couldn’t wait to be rid of it.

“We go to fledgling female’s den this light?” Wanderer asked grumpily. That was still a thing, apparently. Dreamer could understand his fury at Snotlout, now that he knew the regular run-ins with him had apparently set in some kind of bad conditioning, but was what his problem with Astrid? She hadn’t been all that bad, not compared to some of the others.

He sighed. Everyone would come around, eventually.

Fishlegs finished packing everything up and started pulling on furs. While he waited, Dreamer padded over to the one little child in this residence, a little girl of two or three years, and gave her a friendly sniff and lick and purred at her giggles. He would never grow tired of making people happy just by being himself. Then some of the older kids moved in to scratch or stroke him, and he had to manoeuvre around so as to not let them crowd him.

“ _Time to get going_ ,” Fishlegs said, voice muffled by the furs, and beckoned to his back. The Nightstrikers stared at him expectantly. “ _Oh come on guys, you know we’re out, you should have asked to be taught earlier. You’ll just have to wait until next time._ ”

“You know also,” Dreamer countered, and Wanderer chuffed his approval. “You just not want walk through cold.”

He groaned. “ _Fine, you got me. Tell you what, you two furnaces come with me and we’ll go now._ ”

Wanderer shrugged. “We come, you give us two.”

“ _You can have as many as you want, as long as you carry them,_ ” Fishlegs said with a sly undertone. Dreamer hummed thoughtfully as they climbed on.

The trek outside was _freezing_ , even through the thick furs wrapped around them all, and the Nightstrikers couldn’t see at all. It made for a long and miserable journey, with no way of knowing how far away they were. Eventually, the unrelenting pressure lifted from his back and the howling of the wind became a bit more distant, indicating they were in a small structure.

The belt sealing them in was loosened, allowing Dreamer and Wanderer to slip out. _Grah_ , even the dirt floor was frozen! But with little airflow, scales were enough to ward off the cold.

Fishlegs rummaged and pulled out a dried fish to toss over – but didn’t let go of it. They grumbled at him as they dropped back to the cold ground. “Y _ou guys don’t really want to be catching these,_ ” the teen laughed, and slapped it against a crate. Of course, it was frozen solid and hard as rock. “ _Still wanna carry it?_ ”

Dreamer approached and took it off him; as long as he held it in his teeth, it wasn’t too bad. Just as long as he didn’t–… Yep, now his tongue was stuck to it.

The trek to the Hofferson residence was just as bad as to the storehouse, and it was a relief when smoky, stale and smelly air wafted in under the furs. He wriggled forward to poke his head out, taking in the lethargic faces that were beginning to rise at the prospect of something to do. Dreamer understood that all too well, winter for him had been a time to get a _lot_ of designing done, but very little could be made without a forge.

Hrrr, but Astrid wasn’t here. She must be still upset with them; that was going to make this stay awkward.

The overcoat was removed to allow them to drop down, and of course Wanderer cheerfully bounded right ahead and dove into the fire, completely ignoring the cries of alarm. He knew as long as he was in there, nobody would try to pull him out.

Dreamer sighed and padded over, dropping his fish next to Wanderer’s near the pit to thaw, then swatted at him. Wanderer grabbed his leg in his teeth and tried to pull him in with him. _Oh no you don’t_ , a wrestle in the fire was just asking for trouble, Dreamer growled and dug his heels in until he was released. Mmrrr, the warmth was _very_ nice though, even with Wanderer laying over most of it. After casually picking up the errant embers and returning them to the firepit, he stretched out next to it and purred as it ate away at the lingering chill.

After the dried fish had defrosted and been consumed, he went ahead and sought out Astrid. There weren’t many places she could be hiding, and sure enough he found her sat on her bed.

She looked a wreck. Her glazed eyes stared forward, glistening with a light dampness, and she slumped with a deep lethargy that even seemed to pull at her face. Had she been this bad at the anniversary? He hadn’t actually seen her face.

Dreamer warbled _concern_ and hopped onto the bed, accidentally knocking his tail against the floor with a hard sound of metal on wood that stirred her from her daze. “ _…Hey Hiccup._ ” She huffed a bitter laugh. “ _Hiccup… To think, that we would give you his name without a second thought. Not that I ever gave him a second thought, before… Gods, how could I even face him now._ ” She laughed again, a little more genuine. “ _What should I care? He’s in Valhalla. No amount of suffering would keep him away after going out like that._ ”

Astrid looked at him for the first time since he’d entered. “ _So why won’t it stop haunting me? Not that you understand a word I’m saying anyway…_ ” She pulled him onto her lap, and he shivered as her fingers absently ran between his frills. What would he even say to this? He was glad she wouldn’t need to face him, and he her. That just sounded like a whole tangle of awkward.

Apparently having followed, Wanderer hopped up onto the bed as well, though he remained out of reach. “You understand,” he said. There wasn’t much of a question in his tone, but Astrid nodded. “Good. You should feel bad, for what you did.” He huffed, and she sagged further.

Wanderer looked at her thoughtfully, then at Dreamer, and tilted his nose at Astrid. Dreamer cocked his head in confusion. “Tell her?” Wanderer hummed quietly, maybe too quiet for human ears. His tone was mostly spiteful, knowing she would need to face what she had done, and if Dreamer hadn’t told her on that cliff then he never would, but he tried to imagine how it would play out anyway.

There was his optimistic side suggesting a heartfelt reunion, followed by her apologising and treating him like a respectable person… which didn’t thrill him all that much, honestly. It would be awkward for both of them, as it had been with Fishlegs. His pessimistic side envisaged an arduous battle to get her to believe, then her only seeing magic regardless of what he did or said. That was far worse, Vikings had a deep fear of anything they couldn’t swing an axe at.

“That Long-Paw dead,” Dreamer eventually warbled. “He not care now. No thing you can do for him. We angry because he our friend, we feel his sad. You want make things good with him? With us? He not here now, but you here. Show us you can be good. That you better than you were.” There, everything he had wanted to tell her without betraying his identity.

“ _Alright… I–_ “ she started, but cut herself off. “Yes. I think I understand,” she said in Dragonese instead. “Sorry.” She’d been saying it unintentionally a few times, but this time she meant it.

Dreamer purred and nuzzled her. He’d much rather just forget about it all anyway, it was really only Wanderer who was angry. He had an idea to cheer them both up, and shook his head free off the fingers to tackle Wanderer, and they tumbled off the end of the bed with a bark of surprise.

Predictably, it was hard to resist watching a pair of small Nightstrikers wrestling and rolling on the floor, and Astrid was a sucker for the cute routine. It didn’t completely snap her out of it, but her face looked softer in the few glimpses Dreamer got of her.

Well, as long as they were play-fighting… Dreamer gave a more threatening growl with a slight nod. He was determined, and fought off the rotten instincts to cower and surrender at the dangerous snarls, narrowed eyes, and bared teeth. They fought more slowly and deliberately, Dreamer fighting himself as much as his opponent, until he could take no more. He turned away, panting heavily and trying not to curl up on the floor, though he couldn’t stop trembling.

Wanderer refused to ‘win’ like this, but he tackled Dreamer and just hugged him close with gentle purrs. A good way to lose, the comforting was greatly appreciated, and it helped mask his unease; not that it was a risk, his time on Berserk was the perfect cover, but it wasn’t something he much wanted others to see.

Speaking of, Dreamer realised they had gathered something of an audience, several kids he recognised from last winter all watching with a sort of revered awe. He could actually see their hands twitching in anticipation, and huffed a laugh. He could hardly fault them for wanting to touch a dragon, and he didn’t mind; a distraction would be welcome. He gave Wanderer a grateful lick and pulled himself to his paws.

Seeking out the youngest first, he hopped up onto the bed she knelt on, and she gasped as he padded around her and over her lap with a purr. From there he made his way around, hopping over beds and winding between the kids as they stroked and scratched him.

Wanderer wasn’t one to be left out, and they were quickly getting to everyone, but a splitting wailing sound started and multiplied from downstairs at which point some of the older kids were called away and left with bitter grumbles. Babies? Dreamer continued his rounds until the audial assault ceased, then trotted over to the hatch and awkwardly down the steep stairs.

Conflicted _annoyed, resigned, comforting_ sounds and hushing was coming from the closed back room, but the tense gaze pricking at the back of his neck gave him the impression he wasn’t welcome back there. He was fine with that, he had no more interest in them than last year. There seemed to be quite a few more this winter though. Wrrr, Berk was doing quite well for itself, and they _did_ need to replenish the losses suffered at the hands of the Berserkers.

He shook his head and turned – then almost fell on his face as his body didn’t respond properly, stiff and aching as it had been lately. The fight had loosened him up a bit, but it was setting back in. Just normal growing pains, apparently, but he felt he was wearing a shirt that was fitted too closely, just a bit too small. It was even more stifling than being stuck inside all the time.

After stretching – with a grimace at his creaking joints – he went to go back upstairs, but a man staring into the fire piqued his curiosity. Dreamer quietly approached and sniffed his leg, scenting a strong connection to Astrid. Probably her father, though if it was, he looked a lot older now. Hrrr, though he hadn’t been one to play with the Nightstrikers last year, and Dreamer had rarely seen him before as Hiccup, so it had been a long time.

Dreamer shrugged and padded back towards the stairs, but a gentle clicking sound pricked his ears. He turned back to find the man watching him hopefully, holding out a hand and rubbing his fingers together.

His frills perked and he approached placidly to nuzzle the hand, purring as it stroked his head and neck. He soon found himself draped over the man’s lap with curious fingers tracing his wings and sometimes some of the scars he’d accrued on Berserk.

It was hard to tell what he was purring at more; the warmth from the fire, the gentle and pleasant attention, or that he had cured someone else of their hatred and distrust.

* * *

“ _Keep still ya silly lizard, ah did no make this tae come off easily._ ”

Dreamer tried and failed to still his wriggling tail, crooning _impatience, excitement_ , with his wings twitching restlessly. Wanderer was nearby, bouncing and bounding his own excitement.

“ _Here, let me help_ ,” Fishlegs offered as he stepped over to lean heavily on the tail. Dreamer blinked, momentarily forgetting his excitement – had Fishlegs shrunk? No, of course not, that was silly, Dreamer had simply grown. How hadn’t he noticed? He’d spent enough time with the teen this winter.

His hesitation was enough that Gobber managed to get a grip on the small wingnut and spin it loose, and paradoxically Dreamer _did_ go still as he felt the clamps loosen.

“ _…There! Ya–_ “

Dreamer rocketed from the bench of the forge and tumbled into the snow, chirping happily at how light he felt, and sort of naked in a strange but exhilarating way. He kept flipping himself over, expecting more weight on his tail and to need more strength to move it, but he didn’t care.

He darted at Wanderer, intending to pounce him, but his head caught up with him and he skidded to a halt in the white powder. He almost didn’t dare look; even if he was truly grounded it wasn’t a lifetime sentence, but he’d only just started really growing and didn’t want to need to start over again.

The hesitation only lasted a few moments, and he whipped his tail around in front of him and fanned the fins.

His first impression was that it had failed – he could still see the kinks in the fingers. But then his heart rose and soared as he stretched them out, and the membrane between them pulled taught.

Wanderer squeaked happily and tackled him to lick his face, then jumped off and stood tensely in the courtyard with his wings stretched out, waiting impatiently. Just for a moment, Dreamer appreciated how big _he_ was too, bigger than any wolf. But there was too much going on, too much to do, so it was only a moment.

He spun and leapt back into the forge and onto Gobber, staggering him and ignoring the protests as he licked his face.

And then his impatience caught up with him again. He leapt off Gobber, bounded off the counter, and screamed into the sky with a thundering roar.


	21. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hnnnggg, I didn't expect to need to take three weeks, and hopefully this will be the only case I do. Work is to blame, I'm beat, but have a ton of holiday booked including all of next week to recharge.
> 
> Just in case anyone missed it, as of last chapter all non-native language is in italics; Dragons hear Norse in italics, and Vikings talk and hear Dragonese in italics. Garbling words was a fun trick, and allowed me some interesting tools to show the attitude of the speaker (as well as skip over a lot of irrelevant dialogue) but it was a pain to do on any larger scale.

There was no warmth in the sunlight that shone weakly through the hazy sky, certainly none that could be felt over the bite of the wind. The worst of winter was over, but snow and ice were almost permanent features at this altitude within the Archipelago.

The figures wading through the thick white powder were not the type to complain though, and their inexorable progress would have impressed any Viking, were any others around to see. The isolation was not a strange thing, even given the rich iron deposits over and within the mountain, the clique had passed through the burned-out remnants of several attempts to colonise and mine.

Personally, Dagur didn’t understand the problem, but he had no interest in a boring old mine. It was much easier and more efficient to take iron that had already been extracted and refined. He was here for something else entirely, something he’d been tracking for months. He’d returned empty-handed from his last foray into the dark corners of the Archipelago, just as all his others, but it hadn’t been entirely fruitless.

“We set up camp here!” he shouted his arbitrary decision as he lifted the big pack from his shoulder. They could always move, but it felt right with the elevation and surrounding landscape, and he had learned long ago to rely on his gut feelings. He would certainly need them in this hunt, one that nobody had dared for hundreds of years and that even the Berserkers themselves had all but forgotten. Only the barest records remained and omitted many important details. But that just made it more of a challenge, and would only heighten the accomplishment.

Regardless, he had a lead on his quarry. That was all he needed now.

* * *

Hadn’t there been some sort of promise this year it wouldn’t be as bad? This was agony! Dreamer hissed as an excruciating itch crept down his side, feeling like he’d been cut open, then whimpered in relief as it was attacked by claws and teeth. _How paradoxical_ , he thought faintly, but then he felt Wanderer twitch under his paws and quickly located and clawed at the offending hide on his lower back.

One of Dreamer’s claws caught on a seam, and he reached forward to bite at it. It sent them both rolling head over tail, but that was a common occurrence right now, and the light scraping against the stone was actually helping a little. Until they hit the wall of their den, anyway, and his head ended up at the bottom of the pile.

He grunted and threw Wanderer off, then pounced and resumed tearing at the fissure. It took him a minute, but he got a grip with his fangs to tug off the faded old leather, then licked at the dark and raw hide underneath. _Lucky_ …

A few minutes later he felt a tugging on his side, under his wing, and whimpered as another piece of his own hide was pulled away. The experience could not quite be called pleasant, especially as the new hide was raw and sensitive compared to the dead and unfeeling outer layer, but it was a huge relief.

Dreamer reached to claw at another itch, finding with surprise that his shoulder felt a lot looser now. He actually overreached, expecting resistance that he’d been subconsciously accounting for and that was no longer there. This was weird.

Okay, he had to admit he was more lucid than he’d been last year, he wouldn’t have thought twice about anything then. That didn’t make this any easier to bear!

He didn’t really know why they were hidden away up here in their den, away from any other form of help. The brushes may not have targeted the itches as effectively, but they’d covered a broader area and kept the itching at bay for longer, so it was an easy trade-off. They might be less effective this year with how they had grown, but that wasn’t it.

The torture hit a lull and they both slumped in the tangled pile they’d ended up in, panting through weary purrs. Dreamer’s hide still prickled uncomfortably in places, but it was much fainter and easy to ignore for now. His addled mind drifted, thinking distantly on the brushes but finding no desire for them. The shedding had simply started one morning, and they’d not even considered getting help.

It _was_ that he didn’t want anyone else around while he was in this state, but not because he was shy or embarrassed. He had trouble putting his claw on it. For some reason his thoughts kept drifting back to Berserk, as if that was anything to do with it.

He felt himself drifting off and succumbed to it, sinking into a shallow slumber…

_Dagur, striding forward with a short blade in each hand. Dreamer lunged at him, knowing he had to fight him off, but his attacks were weak and ineffectual. Dagur laughed as he toyed with him, inflicting light cuts everywhere and not even bothering to block or evade. Dreamer simply didn’t have the strength to hurt him._

_Dagur was suddenly Snotlout, jeering and shoving him. Dreamer shook himself, some sense of awareness sinking in, with it coming a realisation that he didn’t need to fight. Snotlout could be ignored, wasn’t worth it, not unless–_

_He stared in horror as the thought immediately became reality, the now faceless figure kicking Wanderer to the ground and standing on his head. NO! Dreamer leapt forward, but it was like trying to move through honey, and something kept pushing him away. He wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t strong enough…!_

_“What are you going to do about it?” Snotlout sneered, “Your turn,” Dagur growled a moment later, the faces twisting into each other, either and both at the same time._

_Dreamer spun and nearly ran into Astrid. She looked down coldly as she held her axe over him, the blade dripping with green poison. “Useless,” she muttered, and then it was falling–_

Suddenly able to move, Dreamer scrabbled back out of the way and tripped over himself. She’d got him, he could feel the cut down his neck, he just had to–!

“Safe! Safe!” Wanderer crooned loudly and reassuringly, then nuzzled Dreamer with a _comforting, worried_ hum until his panic subsided.

 _A dream, just a dream_ … Dreamer nuzzled into his friend’s shoulder and forced himself to take slow and measured breaths. “I sorry,” he whined, fighting down whimpers.

“You not do this,” Wanderer hummed with a sympathetic nuzzle. “…Someone else do this,” he growled quietly a moment later.

“Hating them not help this,” Dreamer reminded him automatically. “We better than that.”

 _Huff_. “Maybe I not want be better than that,” but his tone wasn’t serious. “We should eat.”

 _…Yes, while we can_ , Dreamer thought to himself as he blinked himself awake, becoming aware that the many cuts from his dream were just his agitated hide. Come to think of it, they’d not eaten in almost a full day, as the light of dawn was starting to make itself known and highlighting the many scales and scraps of leather littering their den; if it didn’t smell of them before, it would now.

They hopped out into the air, Dreamer a little ungainly as he was still building up his strength after Berserk and winter, and because he was lopsided; his right wing shoulder felt cramped and stifling, while his left shoulder was loose and baggy. Thankfully, that would only last a few nights. It was some consolation that Wanderer was a bit wobbly too.

Unfortunately there were no boats bringing in their haul at this hour, the early risers were still out at sea, but he didn’t want to go to the Great Hall, not like this. He growled in impatience; whatever they were doing, they needed to do it quickly. How did Nightstrikers normally handle this? Hunting with this terrible itching would be very difficult.

One of the many scattered storehouses caught his eye; in a village that burned down regularly, it was never a good idea to keep everything in one place. He’d never been given permission to take supplies, but then he hadn’t been told not to either…

He rolled and sent himself hurtling at the ground, snapping out his wings at the last moment for a hard but satisfying landing. Wanderer thudded down next to him a moment later.

Dreamer glanced around, though he really shouldn’t feel guilty about this, then reared up to flip the latch and ducked inside the dark room.

It was difficult to think in his haste, and he couldn’t remember the priorities of which foods to eat. Was it the brined or smoked fish first? Or the fresh fish, because then they didn’t need to spend time and energy preserving it? Fresh was probably better. They were in the crates, one of which he pulled out from under a shelf and pawed through the snow it contained to find a variety of fish. Perfect.

He awkwardly dragged the crate between them so they could both reach – Wanderer already had his nose in a barrel – and they gorged on the contents; at first he was careful to remove them with his paws so as to not disturb the others, but when it became clear the whole box was going he stopped bothering. The itching was getting worse, so he was in a hurry.

At least he took the time to roughly shove the empty crate with the others, and shut the door behind them. He resisted scratching at anything, he knew if he started then he wouldn’t stop, and the village was too open and exposed.

Hunger sated, they powered into the air and over the docks, then crashed into their den in a growling tangle of claws and teeth.

* * *

“Has anyone seen the Furies?” Fishlegs asked the others as they all walked the bridge to the main island in the early light.

“Meant to talk to you about that,” Astrid said as she slowed to walk next to him, “apparently they raided a storehouse yesterday. Not a big thing, but we should establish some rules.”

“Huh, strange. They normally go to the docks or the Great Hall. Sure, we can go over that. But where are they?”

“They’re probably shedding” Tuffnut interjected. “Explains the dragon raid, heh, they’d be in a hurry to eat.”

“That’s not due for weeks,” Fishlegs replied matter-of-factly. “That was well after Johann was here last year.”

“Au contraire, my knowledgeable but observationally challenged friend,” Tuffnut said as he draped an arm over Fishlegs’ shoulder, “they’ve been scratching like crazy for the last week.”

Fishlegs shrugged him off. “Alright then, if you’re so clever, explain why they’re hiding away instead of begging for help like last year.”

Tuffnut grinned, then stood in front of Snotlout, halting the group. “Allow me to demonstrate. Snotlout, close your eyes.” Snotlout eyed him suspiciously, but did as asked. “Great, now open them.” He watched everyone for a few moments. This is last year, you with me?” Everyone, including Snotlout, stared at him in confusion, but he took no notice. “Now close your eyes again.” As soon as he did, Tuffnut socked him in the jaw, then doubled over with a wheeze when Snotlout retaliated with a punch to the gut.

“What’d you do that for!?” Snotlout snapped at him.

“Making a point,” Tuffnut gasped, then took a few moments to catch his breath. “Close your eyes again.”

“Hel no!”

Tuffnut, still doubled over, grinned at Fishlegs. “This is this year. Make sense?”

Fishlegs blinked. “Uhhh…” Astrid and Ruffnut looked just as blank, and Snotlout shouldered through to continue along the path. “No. That made less sense than Gobber on the fourth day of Snoggletog.”

“Come on!” Tuffnut groaned. “It’s obvious! Whatever, just leave ‘em alone.” He trudged after Snotlout, holding an arm to his stomach.

“…You see what I have to deal with?” Ruffnut complained petulantly as they started walking again.

“Maybe you should stop hitting him in the head,” Fishlegs suggested, “it can’t be doing him any good.”

“Maybe you just need to hit him harder, the saying ‘knock some sense into him’ had to come from somewhere.” Of course Astrid would say that.

Ruffnut made exaggerated motions of dragging her arms as she walked. “I swear, he’s been even worse since all these babies popped out. The lack of sleep’s getting to him, I tell you.”

“I hear ya,” Astrid said with a yawn. “When it was one or two it was fine, but _five?_ ”

“And when one cries it sets off all the others,” Fishlegs groaned. “I wonder if we can train Terrors to be nannies?”

“Hah, yeah, that’s going to happen,” Astrid grumbled sarcastically. “You should have seen Uncle Strog, chasing the Furies off whenever they so much as looked at one.”

“You should have seen Aunty Kaernut, kept trying to give them one, but they were just like, _nope!”_

That turned into a game of impressions and laughing at things the dragons had done over winter, but at some point Fishlegs fell a few paces behind and lost himself in thought while he watched the girls chat. It was weird to think about now, like Hiccup had always been a dragon, and Fishlegs might have entirely forgotten he’d ever been human were it not for the recent… _issues_ that had come to light.

It was a _miracle_ that had all blown over. Then again, the “scars” Snotlout was _still_ bragging about were barely even visible, he’d hardly been hurt at all. Which was _weird_ , given how ridiculously sharp their teeth were.

Would it be insensitive to ask Toothy about that? Maybe he would discretely ask Hiccup. That was more difficult now, with Toothy quickly picking up Norse after Fishlegs had taught him the basics over winter. It seemed to have helped Hiccup’s understanding somehow too, something about listening for the right things. Something else to clarify…

Imagine that. He was the first person to teach a dragon, and Toothy was the first dragon to learn Norse. They were so far into uncharted territory Fishlegs didn’t even know in which direction lay familiar ground.

They rounded the corner to the training ring, and none of them could help glancing up at the Furies’ cave where they probably suffered away. They wanted space? Fishlegs could do that.

Some more notes went down in the book he was holding. He recommended they didn’t hole up for too long though, being able to ask questions in Norse opened a whole boatload of possibilities, and his list was getting long…

* * *

Dreamer had never been a particularly proud person. He never really had much to be proud of, to be fair. Not even his inventions, as the only one that had really worked was… well, he wasn’t proud of that one.

But he had to admit, he looked _good_. Once the raw leather between his scales had been worn smooth by much rolling around, he practically gleamed. Gone were the multitude of scars accrued on Berserk, and the one on his leg had been replaced by a mottling of larger scales. He felt brand new, and it _might_ have been going to his head a little; he’d caught himself prancing on more than a few occasions.

Though, in stark contrast to over winter, now he felt baggy. He’d literally shed his skin for a bigger one, as if it was a shirt he’d outgrown. Except in this case the old one had gone to the tanner instead of the seamstress.

Would he recognise his own skin if someone else was wearing it? Or, like a recycled shirt, would it just be something he’d passed on, not his anymore?

He dunked his head into his reflection in the pool and guzzled the clear water. Sadly, the cove was underwater with the bulk of the snowmelt, but there were plenty of valleys and rivulets crossing over the island with that same melt from the mountains… From those distant peaks towering above, disappearing into the clouds…

Wanderer warbled longingly, staring up at the sky with him. They hadn’t pushed their height yet, as they were still building the strength their wings had lost, but Dreamer knew they weren’t even close to clearing the clouds. That was a height still out of reach. But he _needed_ to be up there, a need that was heavy in his belly and bones.

He hadn’t even realised he was quietly whining until he felt a nose nuzzle his neck. _Ruddy Nightstriker instincts_ … He gave himself a shake, staggering a little as his hide slid around on him, then stretched out his wings and warbled _dare, challenge_. Wanderer flexed his own wings and crooned _curiosity, confidence_.

Rude! Dreamer snorted at him and sprung from the ground, his wings eating through the air in strong, practiced motions with Wanderer hot on his tail. They passed through the barrier of calm in no time, and then their larger bodies easily carried them through the more turbulent open sky.

Up, up, higher and higher. They cleared the lowest peak, wings still hungry for altitude.

A giddy but unrealistic hope blossomed that they would actually clear the tallest, but he noticed he was getting less thrust from each stroke. Though they had just passed the second of the three peaks, they’d slowed down considerably and it was taking more energy to keep climbing. There were no thermals here, no updrafts to work with. But they were so close…!

Wanderer barked and prompted him to level off, and he suddenly noticed the strain and fatigue in his wings. He whined sadly at the last peak, so tantalisingly close and yet still so far away. _One day…_ but not today.

And then he looked down. _Woah_. This was easily the highest he’d been on his own wings, and his head spun a little in trying to process just how _far_ below the ground was and how much he could see. Not quite as high as he’d ever been, but not all that far off. It gave him a strange awareness of how he was being held up entirely by the thin limbs protruding from his back.

With resignation, he folded his wings and let his tail pull him into a nosedive, angling himself next to Wanderer as they hugged the sheer face of the mountain. What he couldn’t reach in height, he would achieve in speed! He tucked everything in tight, the wind wailing as he cut through it. Not yet the scream it would one day be but–

He was suddenly _very_ aware of _exactly_ how close the rockface was, and he levelled off with a bark of surprise. What… what was that? It was as if he hadn’t been aware the mountain was there before!

Wanderer, looking very excited, rose back up to meet him as he coasted on the slightly warmer air. “You see!?” He tilted his head at Dreamer’s expression. “What?”

“What _was_ that!?” Dreamer asked shrilly. It had been so sudden, and had him a little shaken.

“Long-Paws not have sound-sight?” he warbled back curiously. “But Long-Paws can hear!”

“Sound-sight!?”

“Hrrr, see things with sound. Make sound, it bounces, you listen. Hear where things are.”

Dreamer gaped at him. “See with… _sound?_ But…” He had a rudimentary understanding of light and sound, and how sight and hearing worked, but he couldn’t mix the two. Eyes and ears worked in very different ways, that was obvious just by looking at them, but they could _both_ be used to see!? That made no sense!

“Close eyes this time!” Wanderer shouted, then folded his wings to drop like a stone.

Dreamer blinked, then hurried to catch up. Close his eyes? Well, they were quite a way up, and further from the mountain now. He’d be okay for a few moments… He closed his eyes.

It had to have something to do with the sound emanating from his flanks, but it just filled his ears. What was–

And then he _saw_. Not really much, but he was gradually aware of a large surface several body-lengths from his belly, stretching out above and below him into a vague blur. Experimentally, he opened his eyes – the mountain was exactly where he expected it to be, and lined up with what he was ‘hearing’. He closed his eyes again and rolled, and the image moved accordingly. He could see without his eyes…

A vague and much smaller shape entered his range, though it felt a bit strange. He opened his eyes to see Wanderer, just slightly off from where his hearing had ‘shown’ him. Not a perfect sense then, but as an early warning, and to map terrain? No wonder Nightstrikers never missed, they had a view of everything around them while diving.

Speaking of, the ground was beginning to get close; he could ‘hear’ it, but it was foggy and distant, and he didn’t trust this ability with his life anyway. His tired wings protested as he adjusted his dive to swing away from the mountain and the higher flats, travelling at an angle halfway between down and level.

Before long, the village whipped past, the echoes a momentary tangle in his head before being left behind, then they bled their momentum into some aerial fun before coasting down to the islet.

* * *

There was the usual bustling noise at breakfast in the Great Hall, though these days Dreamer wasn’t so worried about being stepped on. If he rose to his tallest while still on all fours, he was probably almost as tall as Snotlout. They were growing steadily and showed no signs of slowing down.

They made their way to the food tables at the back, where they each gulped down a fish before making off with a mutton leg. It had been discussed and agreed it was degrading for them to need to wait to be fed all the time, so they could take a reasonable portion from the tables and stores as long as they didn’t gorge themselves. Which was a bit silly to Dreamer, because when they did gorge they didn’t need to eat for days, but that was what was agreed. There was also the promise that they would help out in whatever way they were able, now or in future, but that was a given as far as Dreamer was concerned.

A small congregation caught his eye, and he noticed Bucket had his easel and paints out and was in an animated discussion with Stoick and Astrid, who kept glancing over at the Nightstrikers. There was too much noise to make anything out though.

Astrid suddenly took off at a brisk jog while Bucket and Stoick continued talking. Something about ‘one, but not both’ whatever that meant.

Dreamer shrugged and cracked the bone he was chewing to lick out the marrow, and was just finishing up when Astrid returned. He tilted his head at her as she approached him and Wanderer. “You come? Sit… still…” She still stumbled over the words, but she was getting better.

He knew what she was talking about anyway, and could smell the dried fish on her. “Yes, I do,” he said with a look at Wanderer that told him all he needed to know; this was a boring Long-Paw thing. “But he can have fish? You give me one after.”

 _“No hiding anything from you guys, huh,”_ Astrid chuckled, then tossed the treat to Wanderer who snapped it out of the air with a purr, and beckoned Dreamer over towards the easel.

“I fly soon, we meet in den later,” Wanderer crooned around his fish.

“Yes,” Dreamer shook back as he trotted over to Bucket.

They had him sit with his wings in and looking up at Astrid, Bucket off to his right, and then it was just a matter of waiting. So much waiting. His thoughts drifted around the girl he was looking at, wondering what might have been. Could they have been together, had he remained human? He only wondered out of curiosity, that was a time he had put behind him now.

Nah, she couldn’t have ever loved him. She was _Astrid,_ he’d needed to befriend the most feared dragon known to Vikings, then literally sweep her off her feet before she’d as much as looked at him. Such a relationship would have been shallow. Maybe that would have worked for a Viking partnership, but now that he had what he had with Wanderer…

Huh. He wondered what Nightstriker mates were like, if friends were this affectionate to each other. Granted, they were still fledglings, but still. He wondered what the word was for mate, or partner, or wife, or whatever it was Nightstriker couples called each other. It hadn’t really come up before.

It took time, and Bucket loudly exclaiming conflicting levels of confidence in himself with the occasional charge into the nearest pillar, but eventually Dreamer was allowed to relax. He tried to nose his way around the easel and the shield resting on it, but Bucket was very protective of his work. _“It’ll be shown later,”_ he said anxiously as he herded Dreamer away.

Finally, an opportunity! Dreamer sank low to the ground, and cranked the adorable up to the maximum. He looked up at Bucket with big, dilated eyes, drawing his frills out, and slowly swept his tail around behind him. A piteously curious warble rolled over his tongue as he slowly shuffled forward.

 _“He’s just a dragon!”_ Astrid whined; she was such a sucker for it, and it wasn’t even aimed at her. _“Just let him have a peek!”_

Bucket looked torn, glancing between Dreamer and the shield on the easel. Just one more little push… Dreamer let his eyes and ears droop, crestfallen. _“Ohkay ohkay, he can have a look,”_ the big man finally allowed, and Dreamer perked and bounded happily in a circle while Bucket shuffled out of the way, then around the easel to look at–

He skidded to a halt with his mouth hanging open, feeling like he’d been stabbed in the heart through his gut.

Stoick stood tall in the middle, his left hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the figure of a Viking Chief in full attire. To his left, Astrid stood proudly in her regular gear, though with some creative flair that gave her an aura of magnificence. She stood apart from Stoick, as they were not related.

Dreamer had been painted a bit smaller to Stoick’s right, maybe the size he was before winter, looking up at the fourth figure who stood between him and Stoick.

Himself. As a human, with his back turned. Neither hand held a weapon, which was unusual, but one rested on the head of the Nightstriker version of himself. He wore the same dark vest and light long-sleeved tunic he always had, and Stoick’s right hand rested on his shoulder. The pain in Stoick’s eyes may or may not have been his imagination.

Why was this… But he… How was…

He fled. He didn’t understand what was happening, but the why wasn’t really important right now. Whatever the reason, it _hurt_.

He swooped into their den, his paws skidding on the stone as he bounded over to crash into Wanderer. _Confused, worry,_ his friend warbled.

“The Long-Paw thing, before I Nightstriker, I not know why, I…” He tripped over everything he tried to say, unable to explain how he was feeling or what had triggered it. “S-stupid words!”

 _Safe, comfort_ , Wanderer purred, then wrapped him tightly in wings and nuzzled the top of his head. “No words.”

Dreamer huddled in silence for a few moments.

And then the clamps on his heart shattered. He no longer cared what anyone thought, no longer had any desire to pretend. He took everything he’d been quietly holding on to and let it all in rapid succession, everything trying to get out all at once and stringing into a wordless, tortured song. For his previous life he keened _failure, regret, disappointment, loss, pain._ His confused identity, a recurring chorus of _uncertain_ warbling and _determined_ growls. His relationship with Stoick came out in _hurt, pained_ yowls that lead into a brief whimper of _fear_ before dropping into _tentative, hopeful, sad, resigned_ croons.

Growls of _resentment, pain_ , came out at Fishlegs, but that tailed into a grudging rumble and then a firm but pleasant croon of _happy._ He snarled _hatred_ at the blindness and short-sightedness of the world and _fury_ at their kidnapping, then whimpered _fear, loss, loneliness,_ for the weeks that followed.

What felt like his whole life story came out, and throughout it all the one constant remained – his best friend, the one who cared for him more than any other, more than all the others combined. Wanderer loudly purred _comfort, reassurance,_ through the whole thing, helping string it along and tie it all together. At certain parts he even joined in with his own keens and howls, layering in his own experiences where appropriate.

To tie it all off, Dreamer warbled and grumbled _confusion, scared,_ and finally crooned _relief, acceptance_. He ached, physically and emotionally, but felt a lot lighter, as if a boulder had been removed from his chest. He found himself purring, and strung in a lilt of _gratitude_. Wanderer licked his head in reply.

The shield… what was it about the painting? He thought on it in his weary, semi-detached state, but his thoughts were all over the place.

And yet, wherever his thoughts went, he linked it back there. The painting somehow told his story as much as his song had, albeit unintentionally, tying in the various areas of his life. He had slowly become accepting of who he was, as a Nightstriker, but now he could think back with acceptance on everything that had happened too. He no longer hated who he had been.

He nestled into his safe place, feeling clingy. Wanderer had said that was an effect of these small bodies, strong instincts and undeveloped minds, and Dreamer wondered how that worked; he didn’t _feel_ squeezed into a small mind… but then again he did feel like a lot of the gunk in his head had just been squeezed out.

He was looking forward to being mature again, but maybe having the chance to be young and immature every once in a while wasn’t such a bad thing…

* * *

Dreamer lay by the warm fire, watching Stoick pace. It wasn’t stormy outside, but winter had suddenly decided it wasn’t done and came back for another round; it was _cold._ Their den had been very uncomfortable to sleep in, despite being sheltered and deep, even with the advantage of shameless huddling and thick insulated skin. When they had flown over to the Great Hall to warm up, it was over a frozen ocean.

He understood Stoick’s concern, it had looked like normal weather right up until everyone had woken up to find their front doors frozen shut, there had been no warning. Johann should be arriving the next day, but if he’d been stuck in the ice he could be in real danger.

Dreamer sighed, then barked to get Stoick’s attention and tilted his head at the door. He was a bit warm from the fire, and had recovered from the prolonged racket of hanging around in the Great Hall, so he wasn’t totally averse to venturing outside.

_“…Yes, you’re right, Will you get Astrid for me?”_

Dreamer nodded and went to the door, allowing Stoick to open it so it could be closed behind him more quickly, and hopped outside. _Gah!_ It was _really_ cold out here! Not particularly windy, but the air bit like a jötunn’s breath! Most of the snow was gone but there was a lot of ice everywhere, which at least wasn’t a problem to one with claws.

He half-leaped half-glided down the village to Astrid’s house and clawed at the door until he was let in, then chirped enquiringly at the woman who had answered. _“Uhh, I’ll go get Astrid,”_ she said uncertainly, then called upstairs.

Dreamer considered sitting in the fire to warm up, but there wasn’t really much point. It would only make going back outside much worse.

 _“Not the friend I was expecting,”_ Astrid mused as she descended the narrow stairs.

“Alpha want talk,” Dreamer warbled. “You come?”

She glanced at the door with no small amount of trepidation. Hmph, he’d survived it and he wasn’t even wearing anything. She just needed to put on a few layers, which she promptly did.

Once let outside again, he bounded up and down ahead and behind Astrid to keep moving and keep warm. He wasn’t really feeling the cold beyond his scales so keeping energetic was all that was needed. _Come on Astrid, the faster you move the warmer you’ll be and the sooner you’ll get there!_ There wasn’t any reason to drag heels.

They got there eventually, Stoick quickly admitting them to his house.

“That look cold,” Wanderer warbled mockingly from his position next to the fire. “You _smell_ cold,” he added, touching his nose to him when Dreamer approached.

“Yes, but no wind.” Dreamer nuzzled his friend, then lay on him with a purr. “Mrrr, you very warm…”

Wanderer wriggled out from under him and batted his head. “No! You cold! Lay in fire if you want warm.” He padded away, then ran when Dreamer chased him.

 _“Calm down you two,”_ Stoick rumbled with _amusement, joy,_ when they knocked the spit from the firepit and spilled a few coals. Dreamer stopped to stick his tongue out at him, then was tackled as Wanderer continued around and came up behind him.

A few minutes later, the ear that wasn’t being chewed picked up Astrid trying to get their attention, and he stood up to address her; the leg in his mouth came with him, which amusingly flipped Wanderer over with a surprised squeak. “You get my Spine-Tail?” she asked a little haltingly in Dragonese.

Dreamer tilted his head at her. “You fly to find Long-Paw?” It was so much easier now he didn’t need to pretend he didn’t understand Norse. “I come.” Astrid and Wanderer stared at him dubiously. “What? I want help you.”

“Why,” Wanderer groaned, but got to his paws. “I not want go out there…”

“You not need come,” Dreamer said with a playful swipe, though he knew it was a pointless offer.

Astrid shook her head. “No… _I should go alone,”_ she said, switching between the two languages.

Dreamer shrugged at her. “If you not worried for flying out there, you not need me for get Storm-Fly.”

She glanced between him and the door a few times, then explained the situation to Stoick. _“Unless you’re going to tie him up, you might as well accept it,”_ the big man rumbled, though he didn’t sound happy about it. _“Though, I would feel better knowing you had someone with you.”_

Dreamer let himself out to get Stormfly without waiting for Astrid’s response.

It actually wasn’t too bad in the air, which was good considering what he had just signed himself up for. Or at least, it wouldn’t be too bad once the big wing-muscles wrapped around his chest warmed up. He also confirmed that the ocean was still an expanse of snowy ice, despite having had all day to melt.

Stormfly was in her den, and raised her head and then a wing when he landed in the ring. He gave her a grateful hum, but declined. “Your Long-Paw need you,” he chirped, then flew with her back to the village, and soon they were flying through the frigid air out to sea.

* * *

Gods, someone needed to invent some better gear to fly in. Something light, warm, and windproof. Astrid figured she’d need to get two or three people working together for it, which was always difficult, but it would be worth it in the long run. Especially if they kept bringing in more dragons and training more riders.

At least Stormfly’s crest broke the worst of the wind, and where Astrid was hunkered down on the dragon’s back was warm, but she still had to keep an eye out on the ocean below. The ice just kept going, and no boat could sail through it.

A dark shape caught her eye at around late afternoon, a blotch on the otherwise pristine white surface below. Moments afterwards, the Furies both barked and powered forward, pulling ahead to wheel above it.

“Johann!?” she called loudly before Stormfly touched down on the deck, remembering the eccentric merchant was skittish around dragons. “It’s Astrid, from Berk, just checking if you need any help!”

A muffled reply came from below, and she dismounted and cracked open the trapdoor to the hold to peek through it. She didn’t blame him for being down there, his cabin would leak warmth every which way.

“Oh Astrid, thank goodness. I must admit, I am in somewhat of a pickle, yes.” His voice was dry and rasping, and a little weak. He probably got frozen in overnight, so he’d been here a while. She located him easily at the other end of the hold, wrapped in a blanket next to a lantern that probably wasn’t doing all that much to heat anything.

“Alright, we’ll have you back to Berk in no time. Come on up.”

She could see his scepticism from here. Right, this might be a difficult sell… To make matters worse, one of the Furies was showing interest in the hatch, sniffing around it and making a low crooning sound. It was difficult to tell which, now they’d grown. She had to get used to their sizes all over again. “No, little guy, he’s not so good with dragons.” Night Furies specifically, but they didn’t need to know that.

But Hiccup – she now saw the malformed scales on his leg – nudged her hand away and very pointedly stuck his nose inside and then stared at her. “Okay… Johann, I’m coming down. Try not to freak out, okay?” Maybe he’d had some time to get used to the idea.

Or maybe not. When the Night Fury followed her down, Johann shrunk into his piles of wares with a squeak. “I promise he won’t hurt you.” She had no idea what he _would_ do, but she was certain it wouldn’t be malicious.

They crept close enough that the dragon’s black form was clearly visible by the light of the lantern, and she could then see his head twitching in the way it did when they sniffed at something. “What is it?” she asked the dragon.

 _“He smell… wrong. Sick.”_ The last word wasn’t one she knew, but the terse gagging motion was simple to interpret. _“I not think he should fly yet.”_

“Great,” she muttered, stepping forward to put a hand to Johann’s forehead. It was very warm, if not quite feverish. “How do you feel?”

“T-to be p-perfect-ly hon-nest, p-petrified,” he stammered in a cracked and rasping voice, holding his blanket up as if to shield himself with it.

“Not that, he says you’re sick,” she said with a jerk of her head at the Fury, who had backed away to the edge of the light. “This ice hit overnight, were you sleeping in your quarters at the time?”

“Erm… yes. Woke up t-to this frightful chill. N-now that you mention it, I do feel somewhat wan…” The fact that he wasn’t comparing it to some long and convoluted tale from his travels was a warning in itself. “You say the dragon said that? Good heavens. I dread to think of the occult practices involved.” He squeaked again as the Fury snorted.

“No magic, just knowing what to look for,” Astrid assured him. “And yes, he understands Norse too. Some of it, they’re still learning. But we’re getting side-tracked. I can fly you back on Stormfly, but it’s a long and cold flight, and it’ll get dark and even colder pretty soon. We should wait until morning, hopefully it’ll warm up then.”

She let out a breath and watched the thick cloud of mist it created. “We need to get the dragons down here. How do I get these doors open?” She pointed at the big double-doors in the roof of the hold as she set about arranging crates to make room for a Nadder. “Oh don’t look at me like that, it’s still too cold down here, and I’m not leaving them up there where it’s even worse. We can solve both problems at once.” He remained quiet, and she sighed. “Would you rather fly back and freeze on the way? Or, I could just go home and check on you in the morning.”

“…That handle up there, then they can be opened from outside,” he rasped quietly.

She twisted the lock on her way past and continued clearing some room, creating a barrier to the ladder but a space large enough for them all to huddle in, then climbed over the crates and barrels to get out.

Stormfly was huddled on the deck, and Toothy’s head worked its way out of her wings when Astrid climbed up, which she couldn’t help grinning at. “Hey guys, looks like we’re staying here for the night. Come on down, it’s a bit warmer down there.” She hefted the big doors open, and Stormfly worked her way down by grabbing the edge of the hole in her beak. The Fury dropped down after her, and Astrid closed the doors again and re-entered the hold via the ladder.

“You okay, girl?” she asked soothingly as she approached Stormfly’s head and gave it an affectionate stroke. The Nadder looked a bit cramped, but warbled happily and nuzzled her.

“Never thought I’d be a–… one with a live dragon in my hold,” Johann stuttered, though his abject fear was subsiding. As she fetched fish from her saddle, Astrid wondered if she was becoming part of a long and convoluted tale herself, and how out of proportion it would be by the time anyone heard it.

With three hot-blooded dragons inside, the hold quickly warmed up to something resembling comfortable, and then to the point Astrid had to shed the thick furs she was wearing if she wanted to keep leaning against Stormfly. Johann fell asleep shortly after, and she quickly followed suit.

* * *

Dreamer felt a little bad, but it was worth not having to listen to Johann prattle off some wild story about Walla Wanari or some other fictitious-sounding place. He levelled out from his dive, the wail that came with it tapering off, and rolled back up level with Astrid. She shot him a grateful smile, though there was a grimace at how Johann was again huddled to her back.

Oh well, they were nearly back home. It was just as cold as the previous day, though there were places the ice had started to crack, so they’d had to abandon the boat and fly back; the anchor was down so most likely it would be exactly where they left it when the ice melted, the only trick would be finding it again. Or, what was left of it if it got crushed.

The last half hour passed in silence, and Dreamer did happy loops and rolls when Berk came into view. The thought of lounging around – or even in – the fire in the Great Hall had him pour on some extra speed, pulling ahead of Stormfly, but something made him slow down. Wanderer’s low rumbling said he felt the same way. They wheeled overhead while Stormfly caught up.

There were a few things. It was literally freezing out here, so nobody would want to be outside, but it was weird that _nobody_ was out and especially with how well-trodden the light snow was on the paths. There was also the occasional building with an open door, and a few dark patches that looked more like blood the more Dreamer looked at them.

He descended behind Stormfly and landed warily at the top of the village, at the base of the steps to the Great Hall. He put his nose to the ground, but all the scents were frozen. Astrid had her axe out as she dismounted.

 _“I might not have anything to trade, but this is still not quite the welcome I was expecting,”_ Johann said nervously.

The door to the Great Hall was ajar, but no sound came from inside. Dreamer poked his head in and found it was also dark, cold, and empty. He turned and warbled worriedly at Astrid. She could only stare hopelessly down into the village.

Berk was deserted.


	22. Challenge

“You know, this reminds me of the time–“

“Johann, this is _not_ the time for one of your stupid stories,” Astrid snapped at the merchant, trying to analyse the situation.

No bodies, human or otherwise, so there was a good chance everyone was alive somewhere. That ruled out a raid by another tribe, and the more traditional dragon raids. It had to be some sort of dragon to cause this, something exotic.

But _what_ had happened? Had everyone been taken, or did they flee? She hoped it wasn’t the latter; they would only flee something that could not be fought. The whole situation gave her the creeps.

A quiet growl split the silence, quickly followed by a second, and she spun to find the Furies sniffing around. “You smell something?” she asked.

 _“Cold hides smells,”_ Hiccup replied with a deep croon, _“but… maybe smell scale-wing-hunter.”_ So she’d been right, a dragon attack. She was suddenly glad she’d taken up sparring with Stormfly; if this had happened with Fishlegs present, then diplomacy had failed.

Toothy was nosing his way down into the village, and stared at Stoick’s door for a moment before flipping the latch and letting himself in. Astrid followed cautiously, worried she might find Stoick still inside, or what was left of him.

Thankfully it was just as deserted as outside, save for Toothy staring up at the loft. She jumped when he crooned, then raised her axe at a creak from upstairs. “Hello?” she called out tensely.

Something big appeared from the hatch to the loft, then barrelled halfway down the stairs and leaped straight at her. She deftly stepped back to let Fishlegs crash into the floor instead, then winced; that had to hurt.

“Astrid!” he cried out, scrambling to his feet and lunging to hug her. She’d run out of space to retreat to, and could only stand there awkwardly. “Oh thank Thor you’re back, it’s bad, really bad–“

“Yeah, I got that,” she cut him off dryly, forcing the words through the pressure around her torso. “How about letting me go and giving me the short version? Where is everyone?”

He let her go and paced nervously. “They set up camp near the cove with whatever they could carry. We couldn’t fight them, they were just too fast–!”

“Couldn’t fight _what?”_ she asked in exasperation.

“…Speed Stingers,” he replied cryptically, with a glance around as if he’d somehow summoned them by name. She tried to recall them from the Book of Dragons, but it was one of the more obscure species that never made it to Berk and thus were pointless to learn about.

At any rate, this wasn’t the place to catch up. “Come on, you can tell me about them on the way out of here,” she said as she herded him to the door, but he stood firm.

“I can’t leave my Meatlug!”

Astrid pointedly looked around and gestured to the empty house, and he led her outside – where Johann was waiting anxiously and watching Hiccup sniff around – and turned to look up at the roof. There, perched on the ridge-beam, was a very still Meatlug. So still she could have been a statue.

“My goodness, how did we miss _that?”_ Johann mused.

“What–“

“The stingers in their tails cause paralysis,” Fishlegs cut her off. “We were waiting for you, but got caught off-guard… Just look at her… So proud and majestic…” Actually, if Astrid was brutally honest, Meatlug was _not_ a pretty dragon, but she wasn’t about to disabuse Fishlegs of his fantasy.

“What were you going to do for her holed up in the house?” Astrid asked him. “Come on, you can help her by keeping yourself safe. Is she… stuck like that, or will it wear off?”

“I dunno…”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Either it does, and she’ll come find us, or it doesn’t, and there’s nothing we can do right now. Come on.” She mounted Stormfly and gestured to him while Johann climbed up behind her.

Fishlegs wanted to argue, and made several strained noises, but eventually just slumped with a sigh. “Okay… Come find us when you can, okay girl?” he called up to his dragon.

Stormfly quietly grumbled a complaint at having three passengers, but took a running start to get into the air and whisked them over the forest.

* * *

Dreamer flapped into a landing in the makeshift camp, staring at the rows of immobilised people. He padded over to one and sniffed at an exposed ankle, but didn’t pick up anything out of the ordinary. Fishlegs had said paralysis, not poison, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be lethal. He recognised Bucket, Mulch, Sven, and several others from the families they visited over winter, all covered in thick blankets to ward off the cold.

Sound pricked his ears and he turned to see Gothi shuffling warily towards him, clutching her staff. He gave a worried croon at the rows of stiff Vikings, about twenty in all, to put her at ease. She relaxed and gave him a small smile, then waved her hand dismissively at them, seeming to imply there was nothing to worry about. That was a relief.

Their eyes met, and she squinted at him curiously before scurrying forward. He pulled back a little, though he wasn’t really threatened by the tiny old woman, and was surprised when she grabbed his chin and stared into his eyes with an unreadable expression. He warbled curiously at her, but she took no heed. After a few moments she turned to the side, staring at the ground and tapping her chin thoughtfully, then hobbled away.

That had been… strange. Wait, did she _know?_ It was said Gothi could see someone’s soul through their eyes, so if she could see his…

…Huh. He found he didn’t really care. He wasn’t the same person he’d been two and a half years ago, but even if she recognised him it felt irrelevant. What was she going to do, change him back? If the Aesir wanted him to be a human, they would have brought it up in the sacred grove. He put it from his mind.

One of the blankets in the rows of stiff Vikings was conspicuously empty, which he trotted around and put his nose to. The scents hadn’t yet had time to freeze, and he immediately recognised Snotlout. That made little sense…

Unless… His ears swivelled, searching for… yep. He trotted into the trees, honing in on the mad laughter to find the twins practically wetting themselves with mirth as they took turns humiliating Snotlout, stiff as a board and propped up against a tree.

 _“Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself,”_ Tuffnut repeated jovially while slapping Snotlout with his own hand. Nearby, Ruffnut tottered and doubled over, struggling to breathe through her laughter. There was a sort of growling noise coming from Snotlout himself, though he was clearly helpless to do anything more.

 _“Wait, wait, I got one,”_ Ruffnut gasped, then had Snotlout make a fist in front of his own face and gave him a nudge. The growling became a little shrill as he fell forwards. A nearby purr signalled Wanderer watching from the shadows as well.

Well, Snotlout was a big boy, he could handle it. Dreamer turned tail and left the twins to their antics.

He wandered the camp, following Astrid’s scent. Conditions weren’t great, but it was pretty good for a temporary camp. The mood was sombre, mostly due to the regular sounds of infants crying and carers hushing them. It was balanced by the tranquil rushing of water running through the cove, from which Dreamer could hear the hollow ringing of wooden buckets striking stone.

Astrid was at the centre of it all, talking in stressed tones with Fishlegs. Stoick sat nearby on a stump, rigid and unmoving. _Not him too…_ He still held his axe, mid-swing – Dreamer grimaced at the blood on it – and his face was stuck in a determined stare.

Dreamer gave a sad croon and trotted over to nuzzle Stoick’s face with a quiet purr, and the man hummed back at him.

 _“Yeh should’a seen ‘im, took six o’ the beasts ter take ‘im down,”_ Gobber said proudly as he waddled out of the trees.

“Rr _rr_ rrr, rr rr _rrr rrr,”_ Stoick grunted agitatedly.

 _“Right yeh are, Chief!”_ Gobber cheerfully agreed with a clueless frown. _“Anyway, water ain’t a problem, bu’ we only go’ food fer the night. Ah’d say ter go pick up more, bu’ ah think if we make i’ tha’ far it’ll be the least of our worries… It’s damn cold, an’ blankets’ll only take us so far. If it so much as snows, we’re done for.”_ Stoick sighed worriedly at that, and Gobber nodded at Dreamer before heading off again.

That didn’t sound good. Dreamer turned his attention to Astrid and Fishlegs, hoping for better news, but the way they were just bouncing short sentences off each other did not inspire confidence. He padded over and warbled an enquiry.

Astrid sighed at him. _“They only come out at night, when it’s dark and hard to see, and they’re too fast to fight.”_

 _“In addition to that,”_ Fishlegs said in a downcast hum, _“you only need to be stung once, and they’re coordinated.”_

“They have alpha, maybe…” Dreamer mused.

_“Yeah, it was hard to tell but it did look like they were all following a bigger one.”_

“If they follow alpha, we just need get alpha away,” he suggested. “Others follow.”

Fishlegs scratched his chin thoughtfully. _“But how? Unless you tie it up and carry it away, but that’s still really dangerous. And you’d have the whole pack to deal with while you were doing it.”_

And if they just wrapped it up, it was unlikely the pack would follow it. It was cruel, but the best he could come up with was stringing it up by its tail and flying it away, so it would still be able to call out. But what would stop it from just coming back?

“Challenge,” Wanderer growled, walking into the conversation. “I can challenge Fast-Paw alpha.”

Fishlegs watched him carefully. _“…Wait, by_ ‘challenge’ _, do you mean…”_

“It mean I fight him, then tell pack ‘leave’.”

“That can work?” Dreamer warbled worriedly.

“Maybe,” Wanderer growled, then addressed Fishlegs. “Different packs have different ways. Maybe they not accept challenge from Nightstriker. But I can try.”

 _“But why you?”_ Astrid asked him. _“Stormfly or Hookfang–“_

“–not fast enough,” Wanderer finished for her.

“We find Fast-Paws then,” Dreamer confirmed, “then fight alpha so he leave. That maybe work.”

Wanderer gave a croon of _sad, trepidation,_ but just looked away when Dreamer tilted his head at him.

 _“Well, first we have to find them,”_ Astrid sighed. _“Then we can decide what to do. How many riders do we have?”_

Fishlegs counted off on his fingers. _“You, the twins, and two of the Nadder scouts.”_ So few!? _“Me too, when Meatlug comes back… Oooh I hope she’s okay…”_

 _“Ugh, what a time for Spitelout to go off raiding,”_ Astrid groaned.

Right… that would explain it…

 _“Come on, we’re burning daylight.”_ Astrid strode off, presumably to where the dragons were.

“Dreamer,” Wanderer warbled quietly, and they fell a little way behind the others. “I not say before because… she not know _us_.” Dreamer nodded, his ears going back. Wanderer was a smart dragon to consistently hide their difference in knowledge so well. “Challenge…” He sighed. “Each pack different. Some packs… challenge to death.”

Dreamer froze in his tracks. “But not this pack…?” he asked hopefully.

“I not know,” Wanderer crooned quietly. “I see some Fast-Paws, but we not talk.”

“This too risky!” Dreamer barked.

Wanderer sidled up and nuzzled him affectionately. “I good fighter, not lose. Not worry. I tell you so you know if I need kill Fast-Paw alpha.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Then I probably need find new nest for them.”

“Yes…” Dreamer crooned sadly. “I try think something else. But if I not can think… try not kill?”

“It not thing I decide,” Wanderer sighed. “If pack fights to death, I need kill alpha.”

Dreamer gave a _sad, frustrated_ growl. That just made it more important for him to think of something else.

* * *

“Stop it! Whatever you’re doing back there, stop it!”

Tuffnut grinned, ignoring Snotlout’s demands. Or maybe he was complying? He wasn’t doing anything at all, but Snotlout thought he was, which was even funnier than actually doing something.

“…What _are_ you doing back there?” Ruffnut asked, then wandered around. Tuffnut shrugged and prodded Snotlout between the shoulder blades, triggering another wave of demands and threats. “Ooh, I get it,” she said with a sly grin at Snotlout’s frustration. “That’s pretty mean.”

It was about that point Hiccup and Toothy prowled onto the scene, Toothy looking very pleased. Tuffnut considered that, then walked around to check Snotlout over. Maybe they’d overdone it a bit, he was pretty bruised and battered. Well, most of that had been Ruffnut.

Astrid stalked in a few moments later. “Oh Thor, what have you guys been _doing_ to him?”

“Whatever we want,” Ruffnut cackled.

“Oh Astrid! My princess, you’ve come to rescue me–“

“Oooon second thought, maybe I’ll come back later,” Astrid thought aloud.

She was followed by Gothi – uh oh, busted. The old woman frowned disapprovingly at Tuffnut, and he gave her an apologetic grin. There were two people nobody, including Tuffnut and his sister, would mess with directly, and that was Stoick and Gothi. Both of them were very capable of making lives miserable.

“Ow!” Tuffnut barked as she whacked his helmet with her staff. She had a way of doing it that wasn’t at all pleasant, not like a good hit from a mace. Ruffnut yelped moments later.

The little old woman tapped Snotlout with the staff, then pointed it back to the camp. “Alright, alright,” Tuffnut sighed, hooking an arm under Snotlout’s shoulder. Ruffnut took the other side without fuss, and they dragged him back and dropped him unceremoniously in his place with the other frozen Vikings. Some of the others were talking casually, which was amusing with how they were all locked in battle poses.

“Come on guys, we’re going to look for the Speed Stingers,” Astrid announced, gripping her axe; not in fear or anger, but more like a grim determination.

“So what’s the plan?” Tuffnut asked, knowing there wasn’t one.

“We find them first, then work it out from there.” Heh, called it. “If nothing else, Toothy will challenge the alpha and drive them away.”

Tuffnut paused. “Uhh, you okay with that Toothy?” The dragon chuffed at him. “Alright… Just don’t get overconfident, these things are real fast.”

Toothy said something about his scales, but the new language was not Tuffnut’s forte. He spoke with trust and confidence though, so the meaning was clear. “Yeah well just be careful.”

Hiccup didn’t look at all happy about it, which was to be expected. That was a dragon who abhorred violence; probably for the best given how dangerous Night Furies could be. “And you watch his back,” Tuffnut told him. _No duh_ , said the look he received back.

“I’m coming with you!” Snotlout had finally worked his face out of the blanket they’d dropped him on.

Tuffnut rolled his eyes at him. “And how you gonna do that, moron? You can’t even move.”

“We’re wasting daylight, let’s go,” Astrid urged, and they legged it to the clearing the dragons were lounging in.

Belch gargled happily at him as he jogged up, the sinuous neck snaking around him. “You ready to start some trouble?” Tuffnut asked.

“No trouble,” Astrid growled, the spoilsport. “Just check the caves near the village and signal if you find them. Don’t do anything stupid.” She then took off on Stormfly, followed by the Furies.

“Can you believe her? Always barking orders,” Ruffnut complained as they took off.

Tuffnut made a noncommittal noise. “Not like we listen much anyway.”

“And yet, here we are, doing _work_. This stinks.”

“Yeah well the sooner we sort this out, the sooner we get our village back and can go back to causing mayhem,” he tried reasoning with her.

“Since when are you such a goody two shoes? Come on, let’s just get this over with.” They nudged their dragon in perfect sync–

Barf promptly attempted to fly a different direction to Belch, and they dropped halfway to the ground before levelling out again. _“What_ just happened!?” Ruffnut asked in a grating screech.

“I… dunno…” Tuffnut was just as stunned as she was. “Are we…”

“…out of sync?” she finished for him, and they looked at each other.

“Pff, nah,” they both said together, and pulled on the reins again–

Only to end up dangling in a tree. “Okay, this might be a problem,” Tuffnut allowed.

“Ya think?”

Getting out of the tree wasn’t nearly as much of a problem as getting Barf and Belch down, but they managed it eventually and got back into the air. “Okay,” Tuffnut called over to his sister, “just follow my lead and let’s just do this.”

“What? Why am _I_ following _your_ lead?”

“Because you were the one complaining about doing it,” he shot back. “Fine then, you lead.”

She put her nose in the air. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

Tuffnut groaned. “Do you want to lead or not? Because I’m not telling Astrid we didn’t check any of our caves.”

“I don’t want to, but I will,” she decided, and Tuffnut groaned again. Now she was just being obstinate.

Flying like this was slow going, but they gradually got through the caves in the area they’d been given to check. It was like walking with one of your legs facing the wrong way. Nobody could work out which head controlled what, or if they were separate at all, but when the heads didn’t agree then it was just mayhem.

“This is stupid,” Ruffnut grumbled as they flew. “We’ve been out here, like, half the day and we haven’t found _anything.”_

“Well, there’s a lot of caves, and only one pack of Speed Stingers. Chances are they aren’t in any of these.”

“Then why are we bothering to check?”

“Why bother doing anything? Why bother eating, we’re only going to get hungry again.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she growled, tugging on Barf to avoid a tree.

Unfortunately, Tuffnut was a bit distracted and she’d picked the long way around it for some reason, so they ended up colliding with it instead.

“Ugh… this is getting old,” he groaned, dangling from a branch again. “I think I’ll take over for the last few. That good with you?” He looked around. “…Sis?”

He spotted her on the ground below – that probably wasn’t good – and deftly climbed down the branches and slid down the trunk. “You okay sis?”

“Do I _look_ okay?” she hissed, clutching at her leg. “We have to go back.”

 _Great_ , Astrid was going to flip. At least there were only a few places left to check. “Alright, come on.” He helped her up, and after a few failed attempts to get her into the saddle Barf just picked her up by the collar. “That works too,” he said, smirking at her indignant frown.

They flew back to the camp, which was easy to spot by all the smoke above it, and landed in the big clearing. Tuffnut then helped his sister hobble over to Gothi, who looked at them sternly. “Hey, we weren’t doing anything stupid this time,” he said defensively.

“Yeah, just had a bit of trouble with the dragon,” Ruffnut grumbled. He gave her a sympathetic punch on the shoulder before abandoning her to her fate. It was very unfortunate this had happened now, but at least _she_ was the one being reminded why they never crossed Gothi.

A fate even worse than what she was leaving him to. “So, uh, Astrid,” he started levelly.

Astrid just looked at him, glanced around for Ruffnut, then rubbed her forehead. “How bad is it?”

Tuffnut shrugged. “She’s with Gothi, so must be pretty bad.”

She gave a satisfied smirk and sympathetic wince at the same time. “Did you at least get all your caves checked?”

“Nah, we didn’t get to the last area. You know, the one around that big boulder that looks like Gustav picking his nose.”

“Oh yeah, I know the one,” Astrid said with a nod. “I’ll get it. Go help Fishlegs on the bridge, Hiccup had a good idea.”

“On it!” Tuffnut shouted and ran off. Mostly he was happy to have somehow avoided Astrid’s ire – he wasn’t afraid of it, it just wasn’t something he liked to stumble into – but he was excited to see what this idea was.

* * *

“Is this _it?_ Well that’s _boring.”_

Fishlegs looked up to see Tuffnut climbing through the ropes and wires criss-crossing over the bridge. “Yeah, but effective. Just watch out for–“ He winced as Tuffnut slipped over and ended up dangling in the ropes. “–the ice…”

“…What’s ice gonna do?” Tuffnut asked as he extracted himself. “Dragons have claws.”

“Yeah but they won’t be able to speed over it as quickly,” Fishlegs explained as he upended another bucket of snow and began treading it down.

Hiccup still had that creative streak, there was no doubt about that, and bottlenecking the dragons on the bridge was brilliant; it was considered part of the bridge, but really this was the path affixed to the cliffside that led to the bridge. The plan was simply to slow them down enough that a handful of archers would make any advance very painful. Hopefully, dissuading the dragons from the village would be enough to move them from the island, as Berk was not a good habitat for fast runners. They’d prefer somewhere more open where they could reach top speed.

In a way, it was a pity they would be leaving, Fishlegs would love a chance to better study them. He would need to keep an eye out for them in future.

“You okay girl?” he asked Meatlug as he returned for another bucket of snow. The Gronkle chattered happily, her wings lifting her into the air – about a foot, from where she dropped limply back to the ground with a surprised expression. “Hey, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep doing that,” he said gently, then _“Stay,”_ in Dragonese.

She grumbled at him and blurred her wings irritably, but didn’t try to take off again.

“Is there a reason we ain’t just burnin’ the bridge?” asked a stout farmer by the name of Magnus as he hammered hooks into the cliff and side of the bridge to fix the ropes to.

“Well, yeah,” Fishlegs replied casually. “They know there’s food here, so to them it’s just a matter of how they can get to it. If we burn the bridge down, they’ll just keep looking for another way onto the islet. By making it difficult, but not impossible, we can injure them with arrows to make it painful enough that either we’ll be able to round them up or they’ll just decide it’s not worth it and leave.” Plus they wouldn’t then need to rebuild the bridge, which wasn’t all that easy even with dragons.

“Right…” Magnus agreed, sounding like he hadn’t understood a word of it.

Fishlegs was putting together an analogy from what he knew of farming when Hiccup and Toothy drifted in to land on the bridge. They were on the other side of the tangle of rope, but it was clear they were talking, and then without warning they raced into the wires.

It both proved the effectiveness of the trap and revealed a glaring issue. They both scrambled over the first hurdle, slipped on the ice onto their bellies, and slid several paces _under_ the ropes. Hiccup got to his paws, cocked his head, then dove forward and crossed the rest of the distance like a black toboggan with Toothy close behind.

“…Oooh, we should fix that,” Fishlegs said as Hiccup slid to a halt nearby. The dragon got up and nodded at him, then flinched and staggered as Magnus started hammering in another hook.

“N-… Noise!” Fishlegs blurted out while Hiccup shook himself. “Oh Thor, how could we forget about that!? That was like, the _first_ lesson in dragon training! We need some noisy metal stuff… What about eels? Should we get some of them too?”

Hiccup sat back, looking thoughtful, but then shook his head. _“Too cold, they just ice.”_

“Yeah, good point. Plus it would distract the few dragons we have. Alright, this should be more than enough anyway.”

* * *

Astrid stood with her mouth hanging open, trying to comprehend exactly _what_ was going on.

It wasn’t just that Ruffnut apparently wasn’t causing mayhem – having a leg in a splint wasn’t normally a hindrance to the arguably more chaotic twin – it was that she was somehow keeping some dozen kids from causing mayhem as well, by herself and injured as she was. She was even lounging on a log with her feet kicked up, using a branch as a backrest.

_“Ruffnut!?”_

“Oh, hey Astrid!” Ruffnut called out cheerfully. “You find those pesky dragons yet?”

“Uhhh… No…?”

“Eh, I’m sure they’ll turn up.” She raised a hand to point into the trees. “That was your last warning Thoren! _Get ‘im!”_

Astrid’s mouth got a little wider as every kid abandoned what they were doing to swarm into the trees and drag another kid back, depositing him in front of Ruffnut. “Nice running form, Svog. Flex them muscles for me? Niiiiiice.”

The offending kid just sat there sullenly. Ruffnut wasn’t actually _doing_ anything to him, just talking to the other kids, but he looked like he was receiving the worst scolding of his life. Granted, he’d just been humiliated, but this was _Ruffnut,_ things could be a lot worse.

“…Kids!?” Astrid finally got out as the kids went back to playing with sticks and dirt. After everything she had tried to get Ruffnut into, _kids_ were her forte? Maybe this was one of those things that was so backwards it sort of looped back around on itself, because it was starting to make a sort of weird chaotic sense.

“Huh? These guys? I dunno, I was just asked to watch one for a moment and they just sort of multiplied.” She shrugged and called one of the bigger kids over, then whispered something at him and watched him walk off to roughly shove a smaller kid to the ground. She held up a hand to silence Astrid’s objection, then called the smaller kid over and leaned over him. “Now you know how Emer felt when you pushed _him_ over.”

“I get him tougher,” the kid pouted, crossing his arms.

“Don’t you worry about making him tougher, you just worry about making _you_ tougher,” Ruffnut said firmly, prodding him in the shoulder. “Pick on kids your own age or bigger, got that? You don’t want to be _weak_ do you?”

The kid stood straight and fervently shook his head. “Good,” Ruffnut said with a smirk, leaning back again. “Go beat up Grotlout, I could use a laugh.” The kid charged off again, probably to start a fight.

“Do you know _all_ their names?” Astrid asked incredulously.

“When you’ve got an aunt who looks after every kid in the village, yeah, you pick up a few things.” A few more things than anyone expected, it seemed. “Hey, you wipe that smirk off your face, I ain’t looking after a bunch of stinking kids for a living! This is just until I can walk again.” She grumbled something about the “stupid healer” under her breath.

“Alright, whatever you say Ruff,” Astrid said while hiding a smirk behind her hand. “We’re making a stand in the village, I was hoping you and Tuff could bring Barf and Belch, but…”

“Sorry to disappoint you!” Ruffnut said cheerfully, sounding anything but sorry. “Guess you’ll have to fight the stupid dragons without me. Been nice knowin’ ya.”

Astrid sighed and continued through the camp, making her way to the clearing where they were keeping the dragons. She was pleased to find Stormfly the one in the last patch of sunlight, Barf, Belch, and Hookfang glaring at her from nearby.

“Hey girl, sorry I’ve got no snack for you today,” she said calmly, stroking her Nadder’s snout. “You’ll just have to hunt for yourself.” Not that Stormfly understood, but that wasn’t the point, she knew perfectly well to hunt if she was hungry. Only pets and slaves relied on being fed all the time, and Stormfly was neither.

Astrid took a breath and stood back, formulating what she wanted to ask. _“You know Fast-Paws?”_ She should have done this hours ago, but it was normally something she could leave to Fishlegs.

Stormfly warbled, though Astrid didn’t think it was a word. _“I see some. Not can fly. Not can bring food.”_ It took Astrid a moment to remember the dragons used to be slaves to a queen, and were forced to bring food or be eaten. It made sense the queen wouldn’t be interested in flightless slaves.

 _“You see them fight?”_ Astrid asked, hoping for some sort of insight.

 _“No,”_ Stormfly swiped back. _“I only see them eaten.”_

It was suddenly very clear why there hadn’t been any around Berk until now. Funny to think the queen that had been raiding them constantly had been protecting them from a much bigger threat all along. She would need to talk to Stoick about it, this was unlikely to be the last exotic dragon they would see, and the more common Scauldron attacks made more sense too.

“Alright, thanks girl,” she said, stroking her dragon again and attempting to thank her in Dragonese; Fishlegs always told her off for messing up the pitch or something, but it was tricky when pressing her cheek to the warm scales. Stormfly knew what she meant, anyway. “Come on, it’s getting dark. Time to see if this works…”

* * *

The shadows stretched and rose from the ground as the sky-fire began its nightly quenching in the sea, and the air took on a strange hue through the dusting of snow.

Berk was a big island, and the Fast-Paws – or Speed Stingers, if one could actually say the words – were nowhere to be found. Not a trace of them, even the scents cold and dead in the ice that still gripped the land and sea.

Dreamer barely even felt the bite of the wind though. He was cold in another way, one of trepidation and fear that gripped his core and had him trembling. This plan would work, right? Fifteen archers could take some sixty or so dragons if they were slowed enough, and the expanse of tangled ropes and ice should certainly see to that. If even that wasn’t enough, the pot and hammer would produce a horrific ringing to cripple any advance. There were also three Nadders, the only available dragons after Ruffnut had somehow injured herself, to add their fire as a last resort. If anything, they might be overprepared.

That didn’t help to ease the sense of dread, the trepidation that felt like a shard of ice in the sternum. He could see it in everyone else too, stiff shoulders and wide alert eyes that jumped with a twitch of the head to every sound in the failing light. It didn’t help that the Nadders kept rattling and setting everyone else off.

Some part of Dreamer was screaming for him to flee, to fly to his safe little cave high up the cliff and not come out until morning. It was worse that he knew Wanderer would happily agree and stay with him if he suggested it, keeping them both well out of harm’s way. But this was his plan, and he needed to see it through.

There was no more snow being blown around on the light wind than earlier, but it became more and more obscuring as darkness fell. Soon, even Dreamer’s eyes had trouble picking out the treeline across the channel. To his eyes the braziers set up along the bridge weren’t helping much, but arrows were still nocked and bows held with confidence.

 _“Where are they?”_ Astrid asked some time after the last motes of light faded from the village. _“Did they leave the island already? Not that I’m arguing, but it doesn’t feel right…”_

Dreamer froze. Had he imagined that enquiring chirp over the wind, one unlike from any dragon he had heard before? No, Wanderer was tense too, and was currently drawing the same terrible conclusion from Dreamer. They had both definitely heard the sound… and were now realising how stupid it was to assume the dragons had actually left the village.

They turned slowly, quietly, and backed towards the bridge.

Astrid took one look at them and spun with her axe up, whispering a tense warning to the others.

A single dragon emerged from the snowy darkness, plodding forward on long, spindly legs. Its muscled thighs made it look disproportioned, even more so with how its eyes were set above its too-large mouth. A sail flexed curiously on its head, which twitched side to side as it observed the Vikings and dragons with eyes that reflected a red glow even Dreamer could see.

It suddenly broke the silence with a screeched warning, then found itself with a few arrows protruding from its front. At close range, and slightly downhill, they went deep enough that the dragon would not survive without attention.

Dreamer’s sympathy for it was short-lived, as he was quickly distracted by _dozens_ more appearing from the icy gloom. Many of them stopped, but some charged through with such speed that their tails hissed through the air.

Several of the bows and the hammer fell to the ground as their wielders were stung. They were _fast_ , faster than anything Dreamer had ever seen, but could not just continue running past the group. Four were cut down by swords and axes that were brought forward while they slowed to turn.

There had not been time for Dreamer to do anything, and suddenly the deaths of five dragons were on his conscience in as many seconds. The survivors of the first wave zipped around in front of him, and then his narrowed eyes were flicking every which way to keep track of everything.

Stormfly took off without warning, and Astrid shouted at the other riders whose dragons were miraculously untouched until they too left the ground. She then dove for the hammer, and Dreamer threw his paws over his ears with a bark of alarm.

The sound of metal striking the big pot weighed on him like a physical thing, pressing down into his head. It seemed to go on and on, and strangely it soon sounded louder in his head than his ears. If this sound could keep the dragons at bay long enough for the others to escape, he and Wanderer could just fly out of there! Speed Stingers didn’t have the advantage of covering their ears.

And yet, there was no second tolling of the pot, just a scraping sound. Dreamer forced his eyes open to see Astrid getting to her feet, another dead dragon behind her and her axe dripping a dark liquid. There was no sign of the heavy pot, not that it had done much good anyway by the chaos that still surrounded him.

 _Challenge!_ Everyone flinched and stilled as Wanderer’s deafening roar echoed into the village.

This was something Dreamer had not seen in a long time, and hoped he wouldn’t see again. In hunts they always worked together, especially with the more dangerous prey, but Wanderer’s low, wide stance and hunched wings were more reminiscent of when he’d gate-crashed the final Dragon Training exam. Everything about him said he was fighting alone.

The Speed Stingers all milled about, flitting between the steps to the Great Hall and the cliff. “Go,” Dreamer huffed quietly at Astrid. He was terrified of what would happen, but right now they had a ceasefire they couldn’t afford to waste. “Get everyone away. We can fly if need.”

 _“Okay,”_ she whispered back, then rallied everyone. Injuries were quickly taken care of and the paralysed people pulled back, probably to be airlifted out.

Movement caught Dreamer’s eye, a larger sail on a taller Speed Stinger moving forward through the pack. It stood a head taller than its kin, and had markings on its head. Red markings, it looked like, and a red sail, which became evident as it approached the light. _Challenge_ , it snarled back.

* * *

Wanderer knew perfectly well how fragile this situation was. His roar had caused all the Fast-Paws to hesitate, but all it would take was a twitch from the alpha to set the pack on them again.

The alpha considered him as it stepped forward, its small paws disappearing into the snow. It knew it didn’t need to accept, but was proud and overconfident. It casually sized him up, weighing status and risk.

Even without his fire, Wanderer was confident; the Fast-Paws were extremely fast, as their name indicated, but mainly in running and they needed some small distance to get up to speed. He did not need to compete with that speed in a fight like this.

 _Challenge!_ the Fast-Paw alpha roared back, and Wanderer relaxed a little. The pack would not interfere now, not after its alpha had accepted a challenge. Not unless one of the Long-Paws interfered, but he had to trust Dreamer was handling that.

They silently prowled towards each other, eyes narrow and blanking out everything else. Only their opponent mattered.

The Fast-Paw’s tail swayed above it, poised and ready to strike, but Wanderer carefully kept himself out of range. The tail was the main threat, followed by the hindlegs; the jaws and forelegs did not look strong enough to cause real damage, but would be used to grapple and hold, if only for a crucial moment.

Despite his confidence, a hype buzzed in Wanderer’s limbs as he dodged the first strike, the tail impaling the ground where he’d been a moment ago. He’d been inadvertently conditioning himself to speed, playing with a very fast Nightstriker for so long, but this was a very different sort of fight than he was used to. Whatever happened, he could not allow himself to be hit by that tail.

He dodged a quick follow-up strike, watching for patterns and openings. Attacking it head-on was foolish, he needed to somehow get around it and under the range of the tail, though any sort of grapple or pin would be risky.

Before he could run out of room to retreat to, Wanderer reared over the next strike and brought his weight down, his paw colliding with the Fast-Paw’s head and staggering it. That dangerous tail whipped around for balance; an opening, if he could strike at it again.

They prowled around each other, ignoring the onlookers. With its side to him, the Fast-Paw had a longer reach, and Wanderer eyed the swaying barb cautiously. He was therefore unprepared when the alpha suddenly lunged at him, raking some shallow cuts down his face before he could react.

The tail would follow, so Wanderer lunged forward and sent them both rolling over each other. He got his teeth into its neck, but it was a dangerous place to be and he wasn’t in a position to tear out its throat, so kicked it away and scrabbled back.

It got to its paws and screeched at him, then jumped forward again. Wanderer knew better this time and leaped forward, under it, to get behind where he could grab the tail and do what he needed to.

His blood ran cold as pain erupted near the end of his own tail, followed by a strange numbness; he could feel it, but it felt cold and unresponsive. The sensation was also spreading up towards his body. The Fast-Paw was already out of reach, he couldn’t end the fight himself before this numbness took hold.

Wanderer did the only thing he could. He pulled his tail in to hug it and tucked his head down, then wrapped himself tightly in his wings before they could lock in place.

* * *

_“Ah think ah’ll stay. Me mum ‘n dad went by dragon, an’ ah fancy takin’ a few more out.”_

Dreamer wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on behind him. He stood there, watching the fight, tensed and ready to do… nothing. Interrupting would only bring the rest of the pack into it. It wasn’t as if he could relax though.

With his heart in his throat, he watched Wanderer dart under the Speed Stinger, which speared the ground behind him. He didn’t know how far the others had got with getting away, as prying his eyes away from the fight would mean he’d miss something.

What was going on in front of him, however… Wanderer wasn’t getting back up, and the Speed Stinger had taken its distance and stood there casually. Dreamer stared at that dark lump on the ground, his breathing short and sharp.

The Speed Stinger alpha walked forward, not at all concerned, and prodded the lump. The rest of the pack was creeping forward now, so Dreamer did as well to get a better look. His friend was nothing but a rounded black cocoon, protecting his vitals.

The alpha kicked him, a powerful leg slamming into the wing, though it hit something behind it and did no damage. It gave a short and confused warble, inspecting the black mass.

Wanderer had _lost._ It felt like that shouldn’t be possible.

Dreamer went stiff as the alpha shrieked _challenge!_ It bit at Wanderer, trying to pry his wings open, then delivered several swift kicks in rapid succession. The fight was over, but the Speed Stinger alpha was continuing it.

_Some packs challenge to death._

There was no other explanation.

_Challenge!_

The roar left Dreamer’s throat before he knew what was happening. He felt weirdly hot and cold at the same time, and wasn’t quite holding the trembling at bay, but the alternative… There were really only two outcomes. He’d win the fight, and he and Wanderer would both live, or he’d lose and they’d both die. Those were the only two outcomes that mattered.

Making a contemplative clucking sound, the alpha looked between the two Nightstrikers. It then looked at the pack, and fixed its stare at Dreamer, who _willed_ himself to calm and stare back levelly.

 _Challenge!_ it roared back.

Dreamer felt his paws slowly walk him forward, low to the ground. His tail lashed behind him, and a growl rumbled through his bared teeth. His eyes were narrowed and trained for the twitching of muscles that would betray the alpha’s movements before it made them.

He was expecting the first strike and darted to the side, skipping off the cold ground and around his opponent. The alpha turned slowly – only a couple of heartbeats, it just felt slow – but its tail had already drawn back and hovered above it, ready to strike.

It growled and leapt forward – instead of darting under it as Wanderer had, somehow resulting in getting stung, Dreamer darted backwards. It landed running, quickly picking up speed and closing the distance. That deadly tail lanced forward–

And grazed off Dreamer’s wing, held forward at an angle. With a flick, he batted the barb away and met the alpha’s charge with a heavy strike of his paw that sent it skidding in the light snow.

He took the opportunity and lunged while the tail was being used for balance, barging it and bringing his claws up to keep it off balance. Instead of whipping around, however, the tail planted firmly against the ground–

The powerful legs lifted and _slammed_ into Dreamer, squarely in his chest, and launched him back several body lengths. The pain was distant, forgotten in the haste to get to his paws and back into that key zone around the alpha before it could recover; out of range of its stinger, but not so far it could sprint at him.

Dreamer kept a wary eye on the tail as he stalked the boundary of its range. Its attacks were predictable now, all revolving around that tail. It lunged forward again, and Dreamer deftly leaned aside to let it strike the ground under him. This close, it could not pull back fast enough to avoid Dreamer’s teeth clamping down on it.

He bit down hard, feeling the needle points puncture the leather and scrape against bone. The Speed Stinger howled as Dreamer tugged it to the ground, rending muscle. It would recover, eventually, but the tail was out of the fight.

 _Submit_ , Dreamer snarled around the tail, but the alpha lunged and tried to scratch and grapple him with its short arms. It could not compete with Dreamer’s strong forelegs, and was lifted and slammed heavily into the ground. _Submit_ , he snarled again.

It kicked at him with its hindlegs, so Dreamer shredded its flank. It bit at him so he slashed its face. _Submit!_

Still it dragged itself upright, growling madly. Why wasn’t it submitting? Did it _want_ him to kill it?

Dreamer refused to do that. He would beat it senseless, to protect Wanderer, but he _wouldn’t_ kill it for the sake of it. When it staggered at him with a roar, Dreamer put all of his weight into a strike that threw it to the ground and sent it sprawling.

He stood there, panting, staring at the dragon laying in the snow and grass. It was still breathing, and didn’t even appear to be unconscious, but this time it did not get up.

Dreamer’s muscles suddenly refused to hold still, and he trembled from nose to tail. What… what had just _happened!?_ He could remember everything of the fight, but it had been as if he wasn’t in control. There had been no thoughts, no planning, just acting and reacting. He lowered himself to his haunches and _willed_ his body to stop shaking, but his muscles refused to cooperate.

The Speed Stinger pack was edging forward again, eyes on their alpha and Dreamer. Their jerky movements were a little difficult to read, but they looked and sounded confused. One of them stood over the downed alpha and trilled enquiringly at Dreamer.

“Leave this small-land,” Dreamer tried, but none gave any indication they understood. _Okay, so–_

The Speed Stinger whipped its tail around and buried it in the alpha’s throat. _Challenge!_ it screeched over the dying gurgles.

 _Challenge,_ another one growled from the crowd, and the pack stepped back to make room for the new combatants. It was over quickly, one stinging the other and slashing its throat. _Challenge!_ another one roared, and it started again.

Dreamer was helpless to do anything, again merely a spectator. He shakily padded over to the black lump that was Wanderer as the second fight ended, and collapsed next to him, feeling weak and numb in both body and mind. He flinched and whimpered as another roar of _challenge_ rang from the pack.

He couldn’t even watch anymore, feeling sick to his stomach, and just draped a wing over Wanderer and tried to tune it out. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the dying gasps that were quickly silenced.

Four more deaths in total, not even including the original alpha. When there were no more declarations of challenge, Dreamer looked up to see the new alpha considering him. It was much smaller than the original, and had none of the strange markings or colouring, but it was still a bit larger than the others.

The sail on its head flexed as it considered the two Nightstrikers, then glanced at something behind them; probably that one Hooligan who had decided to stay.

 _Surely it wouldn’t…_ Dreamer simply couldn’t go through that again. Either he would need to kill it, or there would be another round of deaths. A glance at Wanderer, at the subtle movement in his back with his breathing, and conviction gripped at Dreamer again. _“Leave,”_ he snarled dangerously.

It stared at him for a long moment, and then let out a roar that had Dreamer tensing ready to spring into action.

And then the whole pack turned tail and disappeared into the murky darkness. Their footsteps were light, but the sheer number of them merged into a strange hum that faded into the distance.

They were gone. Perhaps just back into the village, but Dreamer didn’t think so. He collapsed again, then rubbed his head against Wanderer’s wing with a sad whimper. Occasional whiffs of blood were carried over the wind, reminding him of the death he was surrounded by; all his fault in one way or another.

Crunching footsteps had him raise his head again and eye the remaining Hooligan warily. It wasn’t one Dreamer recognised, but at least the man’s axe was on his belt. _“That took guts,”_ he said as he walked over and sat next to Dreamer, staring down into the village. _“Acker said you understand Norse?”_ Dreamer nodded slowly. _“Well ah’ll be Loki’s skivvies. You two are full of surprises.”_

They sat in silence a little longer while the man absently flicked at the snow, then he looked over at Dreamer. _“We should get your brother out o’ the cold,”_ he said, climbing to his feet, but Dreamer growled at him. _“…No?”_ A very pointed look at the large and heavy blade on his belt got the message across. _“Ah’ll try not to take offense,”_ the Viking said as the axe was casually tossed to the ground. _“Suppose ah cannae blame you though.”_

Dreamer shakily rose to his paws, a multitude of wounds weighing down on him. His chest – the second time he’d been kicked there, now – ached with every movement, his back and shoulders stung with a multitude of light scratches, and a line of fire burned along his left wing, the one he had used to block. He discovered the wing was locked to his side and unwilling to move, a small amount of venom must have found its way in.

He pushed through it and followed the Viking as he carried Wanderer, then opened the door to Stoick’s house to let them in.

 _“I’ll go tell everyone i’s safe ter come back. Assumin’ Astrid has nae already.”_ With those words, he left the house and shut the door behind him, leaving Dreamer in an eerie silence.

The oblong ball that was Wanderer had been placed on the floor near the fire, though it was not currently lit. It didn’t look or feel like him though, Wanderer was playful, energetic and affectionate, while this sealed mass of scales was silent and still.

Dreamer followed his nose to some light cuts, similar to his own, on Wanderer’s shoulders near his wings, and ran his tongue over them. This was too weird, and Wanderer couldn’t possibly be comfortable, so Dreamer carefully pried his wings away and then his head up. He was hugging his tail, which Dreamer ran his nose down to find a puncture wound, bloody but staunched. _That_ was how he’d been hit, the barb striking the narrow appendage behind him; simple misfortune.

Wanderer was eventually stretched out and laying a bit better. At least it _looked_ like him now, though the silence was still eerie and his eyes were closed. Dreamer found and treated some more wounds on his head, then nestled in beside him.

Stoick eventually entered the house, moving quietly. _“Ah… Toothy, Hiccup. We were…”_ He sighed and shook his head. _“Hold on, let me get this fire lit…”_ They were soon gathered around a blazing fire, the warmth very welcome after so long in the cold. Dreamer gave a soft purr as a hand briefly caressed his head. _“We were told what happened. What you did for us.”_ His hands cupped Dreamer’s and Wanderer’s jaws. _“I cannot thank you enough.”_

Dreamer couldn’t talk to him, but there wasn’t much to say anyway. He gave a sad warble, nestling back into Wanderer’s side.

 _All my fault…_ First for assuming the Fast-Paws had left the village, then for trapping everyone with the aggressive dragons, then _that_ failure had forced Wanderer to challenge and get hurt, then his allowing the alpha to live had caused more deaths.

Sleep did not come, though he dozed in a semi-aware state. At some point a fish appeared next to him, initially he was unable to eat it but after a time it was easier to do that than to put up with the smell any longer.

By the time Wanderer began to sag to the floor, Dreamer had had a _lot_ of time to think everything through. Even more by the time Wanderer was able to offer him a gentle croon and nuzzle. He felt unreasonably happy to see those bright green eyes again.

Dreamer purred and licked his friend. He still felt saddened by everything, but was past blaming himself. His lack of experience and foresight, yes, but not his decisions. That, at least, he could live with.

His own wounds were treated, something he hadn’t bothered to do himself, and he purred at the tongue on his neck before fetching a fish for Wanderer who was still mostly immobile.

“You fight alpha…?” Wanderer asked after the fish disappeared.

“Yes…”

“You win,” he continued in a purr full of _pride, elation, awe_ , and did not pry further. He’d probably heard the whole thing anyway, and there was a touch of understanding and sympathy in his expression.

“Unfortunate, it hit your tail,” Dreamer crooned quietly.

“Yes, unfortunate, but I also not fast enough. _You_ fast. You strong.” He pulled himself on top of Dreamer – his back half was still limp – and purred loudly and happily. Dreamer found it contagious, and couldn’t help but purr too.

After it all, despite his misgivings, he _did_ feel strong. Having his friend reaffirm that was a large reason he was purring. And next time, he _would_ do better.


	23. Endeavour

Dreamer glared at the big black lump of iron. _Some help you were_ , he thought at it snarkily, then trotted off to tell Fishlegs to tell Olga they’d found their big cooking pot. Apparently, it had rolled halfway down the village and under a cart; Astrid had probably kicked it at the Fast-Paw that had charged her or something.

The aftermath of Berk’s brief occupation was surprisingly light, a few kicked in doors and a lot of missing food accounted for the majority. Though, that was not including the damage from the initial takeover. There were several bodies, some that had been taken by the fleeing Hooligans and some that had been left behind and dragged out of the way by the invaders. About as many again were still missing, probably dropped into the sea.

Everyone was either preparing for the funeral that would be held at sundown, or piecing their lives back together. Some had more of a job of it than others.

Dreamer was just trying to put the events behind him. He thought back on the fight with mixed feelings, detesting all the death that surrounded it, but he couldn’t deny a measure of elation and confidence at having fought and _won_ against the alpha. No weapons, no tricks, just his muscles, claws, and teeth. At the same time, that terrified him.

And he’d be significantly more dangerous in a couple of years. How easy was it to breathe fire? He might as well have a sword to the throat of anyone he looked at.

Telling a relieved Fishlegs of where the pot had ended up so it could be retrieved was only a small distraction, and then he was back with his thoughts. Where was Wanderer? He needed to play or something, going through events over and over was only going to drive him mad.

Maybe he’d gone back to their den, there hadn’t been any sign of him in the village. Dreamer jumped into the air and beat his wings to stay airborne while he picked up speed. Even they felt stronger today, sturdier and more confident. Maybe they could try capping Berk’s mountain again.

He didn’t need to go as far as the den to find Wanderer, as it turned out he was racing around Stormfly in the training ring. She suddenly lashed out at him, but he dodged teeth and spines with ease. However, when he lunged at her, she just rebuffed him with her superior bulk. It was quickly clear neither could really do anything to the other.

Well, in a real fight she would be trying to flame him, and he’d be going after her wings. Or just fleeing. _Actually…_

Dreamer drifted down and landed on the fence around the ring, then barked to get their attention. “Race!” The word was said in growl of challenge while flaring wings; a race in the sky.

“Fight,” Wanderer suggested back, a growl of challenge with bared teeth and flexing claws. Dreamer didn’t really–

“Race!” Stormfly growled happily, and Dreamer smirked at Wanderer. Outvoted.

But Wanderer growled off to the side. “I… not can fly good.” He swung his tail around and flexed the fins to demonstrate, and sure enough they moved stiffly and slowly. _Wow, we really have terrible luck with our tails._ Well, it was still only the next day, the Fast-Paw venom would wear off soon.

Stormfly nudged him with a squawk and plodded off to sit at the side of the ring. Dreamer sighed. No race then.

Wanderer flapped up onto the rail and stalked along it, moving deliberately. Dreamer groaned, he didn’t want to fight, not so soon after the alpha. He needed more time to process; he might not have been the one to strike the killing blow, but its blood was on his claws, figuratively and literally.

Why was Wanderer so set on fighting anyway? _Hrrr…_

“You know,” Dreamer said mildly, inspecting his claws and ignoring Wanderer’s advance, “I win fight against alpha that win fight against you…”

Wanderer hissed at him. “That not mean you fight better.”

“If you say that, you not need fight me then.” He shot Wanderer a toothy grin, then trotted along the narrow rung away from him.

A deliberate clicking behind him told of Wanderer stalking along a little faster. “If you fight better than me you not need worry.”

“I not worried,” Dreamer called over his shoulder. Riling his friend probably wasn’t a very bright idea, but he seemed set on fighting either way. This way he could be baited into something more fun. “I just happy I know I fight better.”

That did it, Wanderer sprinted along the rung with a snarl, teeth snapping down behind Dreamer’s tail as he leapt into the air. _A race it is after all!_ Albeit a slightly different kind of race, where Wanderer was trying to catch him instead of overtake him, but a race nonetheless.

He reached a comfortable height and levelled off, glancing back – and then ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding a grapple. Dreamer snorted at him; so much for being slow.

Actually, no, his tail wasn’t warped as Dreamer’s had been, it was just stiff. That would restrict his turns and manoeuvrability, not his speed. Dreamer gave him another toothy grin and rolled and looped around him, forcing the Nightstriker into sharp turns he couldn’t make as quickly. Stormfly joined them at some point too, but just drifted around to watch.

He did accrue a few scrapes, Wanderer landing light slashes with some surprising aerobatics, many of which Dreamer tucked away to work out later. One such trick was angling into a sudden gust of wind to both brake and launch him much higher, right into Dreamer’s path as he flew above and behind, so that he was forced to tuck in his wings and dive.

Sufficiently burned out, Dreamer let gravity take him nearly to the ground before flaring his wings and slowing into a landing, then collapsed onto the cool stone with a purr. He ignored Wanderer coming up behind him, but then squeaked in alarm and surprise as a wet tongue ran up the back of his ear.

Wanderer was just trying to bait him, but it came very close to working. Dreamer rolled over so that the wetness didn’t dribble into his ear itself, slashing wildly to force the perpetrator back, then tried pawing off the slimy stuff. “We fight tomorrow,” he tried bargaining.

“Tonight?” his friend growled through heavy panting, but grumbled at Dreamer’s expression. “Tomorrow.”

“I… not know what happened in fight,” Dreamer said quietly. “I just… fought.”

“Not think for fight,” Wanderer agreed. “No time for thinking. Just do.”

“But… if not thinking… what if I hurt you?”

Wanderer chortled in amusement, then ran his claws down Dreamer’s wing, across the scrape from the fight. “You hurt Fast-Paw without meaning to?”

Dreamer thought about it. Twice he had hit the alpha hard, and both times his claws had been out, but while they had definitely done damage it hadn’t been severe. Not until he’d been trying to, anyway, to stop it kicking and biting him. He dipped his head in acknowledgement of what Wanderer was saying.

“Not thinking not mean you different person,” his friend continued. “You not kill Fast-Paw alpha. You still Dreamer.”

“I should have killed it…” Dreamer mumbled.

Wanderer gave a low, comforting croon and sidled up to him. “Yes. But you also should have killed me, that first night. You not.” He hummed thoughtfully. “You thinking other challenges your fault?”

“If I killed alpha, no more challenges. No more dead.”

“No. You lead them to other small-land, leave them there? _Then_ they fight, die.”

That was a horrifying thought. Why would anyone throw their life away so readily? Fighting for the position of alpha made sense, Vikings weren’t all that different, but to then kill the other would mean less strong fighters in the pack overall. “That not make sense. Why?”

Wanderer shrugged. “Fast-Paws aggressive. Maybe too much fighting if not to death. I not know. Not care.”

Maybe, if they were aggressive dragons then fighting to the death would be a measure against constant challenges… but surely there was a better way. Some rule or…

Dreamer slumped. They were wild dragons, simple in mind and nature. Even as much as he liked Stormfly, it was clear she simply wasn’t as intelligent as Nightstrikers, and she was still one of the smarter dragons. That didn’t make the deaths any lighter, but if there was truly no way around it…

He growled under his breath. He didn’t want to just leave it like that, but they were long gone now and it appeared to be just something else he didn’t have the power to change.

There was a plodding approach, then a squeak, and Dreamer was suddenly a bit battered by Wanderer rolling over him. He wriggled free and shook himself, then glared at Stormfly who was chittering happily to herself. She reached forward with a leg, her long talons extending under Dreamer’s chest, and then he squeaked in surprise himself as she flipped him over with little difficulty.

Dreamer growled indignantly as he got to his paws again, sharing a mischievous look with Wanderer. They hadn’t played with Stormfly before, and she was a lot tougher than Tuffnut or a few toddlers…

* * *

On her usual morning jog to the training ring, a little later than usual after dealing with a few things on the way, Astrid slowed as she heard playful draconic sounds. Recognising Stormfly and the Furies, she crept the remaining distance and peered over the rim of the ring.

Stormfly stood in the middle, very still as two black shapes growled and crawled over her. One was hanging from her face to chew her horn, the other somehow got onto her back and seemed unsure what to do from there.

Without warning, she flicked her head and sent the first one skidding across the ground, and then she leaped into the air and bucked wildly, the black shape on her back clinging for dear life with wide eyes. After a few impressive jumps, he remained in the air a little longer than she did, shrieking and flailing wildly until he met the ground with a slap.

Astrid was worried for a moment he’d hurt himself, but he scrambled to his paws, gave himself a vigorous shake, then bounded back at Stormfly and clung to her leg. The first Fury had also recovered, and while she was distracted he jumped up to drape himself over her neck and chirped demandingly. She kicked the one off her leg, flinging it across the stone, then flattened her crown of spines over the other and shook wildly.

Flattening herself to the stone so as to not distract them, Astrid watched the scene unfold, trying and failing to not get teary with unbridled joy. She’d been intending on going flying to unwind before throwing herself back into her duties and training, but this was much, much more effective. She occasionally had to wince though, they were all playing very roughly, but were quickly proving their wings were a lot less fragile than they looked.

Lucky little dragons, not a care in the world, just living day to day and taking everything as it comes. It was times like this Astrid envied the simplicity of their life; not that she begrudged her own lot in any way, it was just nice to fantasise about sometimes.

* * *

Wanderer sighed, still rubbing the morning weariness from his face, as Dreamer finished explaining his plan. He could see the reasoning behind it, and agreed with the principle, but it was all just… very _Dreamer_.

“You want do this now?” Wanderer asked. “Not when have fire?”

Dreamer fidgeted. “I thinking after Fast-Paws leave, where they go. Also not need fire, good we not have for this.” Wanderer disagreed wholeheartedly with that, but he knew better than to argue. This was _Dreamer_ , when he got a bone he chewed it until either he broke it, or it broke a tooth; that had been funny the first few times. Wanderer might as well just accept it was going to happen.

Wrrr, he probably could hold him back quite easily, but again with the bone, Dreamer wouldn’t just forget about it.

He shook himself to clear his head and prowled around to block off the entrance of their den, eyes narrowed. Dreamer glanced up and groaned. “Why you always want fight,” he grumbled.

“Because I need get stronger,” Wanderer growled in frustration at himself; he was still bitter he’d let himself get hit by that tail. “You also need get stronger.”

“Yes,” Dreamer groaned and took his stance.

_Huff,_ that wasn’t the attitude to fight with. Wanderer wanted him to give it his all. “I not want fight like this,” he said, stretching and padding forward.

Dreamer groaned again. “You want fight, you not want fight, what you want?”

It was always satisfying seeing that moment of realisation, the raised ears and narrowed eyes right as Wanderer got him. His tail flicked Dreamer’s leg out from under him, dropping him to his chest, then Wanderer pounced and got his tongue up the back of his ear before it could flatten.

“Again!?” Dreamer griped loudly, desperately pawing at his ear, then lunged with a snarl. This was more like it! Wanderer darted to the side, but Dreamer sped around behind him and clawed onto his back.

He was forced to roll to throw him off, then kicked him away for time to get to his paws. They prowled around each other with low growls, waiting for the other to make the next move.

It was Dreamer to lunge first, ramming into Wanderer; his claws scraped the stone as he was pushed back. Wanderer was quite a lot bigger though and quickly found his footing, then jabbed at Dreamer’s neck with the wrist of his wing. It was enough to put him off-balance enough to lunge and grapple him, but he twisted out of it and clocked Wanderer with his tail as he spun around.

Seeing the opportunity, Dreamer got his own paws around Wanderer’s neck, but with the size difference was easily overpowered and pinned to the ground. A painful kick to Wanderer’s side loosened his grip enough that Dreamer threw him off and darted back. He was very slippery, Wanderer had to give him that.

Dreamer was favouring his right side, the steps on those paws just a little shorter than his left, so Wanderer kept moving around him to abuse that minute advantage. He lunged forward while Dreamer was mid-step, slightly off balance, and swiped at him, keeping him on the defensive. Teeth, claws, shoulder, claws, shoulder, wing, teeth, he kept up the assault to push Dreamer back into the wall, then–

The fight bled out of him as he realised Dreamer wasn’t fighting back anymore. Wanderer took a deep breath to calm himself, feeling hurt for the shivering Nightstriker who was clearly doing everything to stop himself curling into a ball. He padded forward and nudged Dreamer with his snout, then winced and crooned apologetically at the violent flinch it elicited.

This didn’t make sense… but he buried that for now to sidle up against Dreamer and drape a wing over him, offering a comforting purr and nuzzling him until the tense breaths calmed a little. They stayed like that a while; Wanderer didn’t know what to say at these times, and he felt bad for pushing Dreamer like this, but at the same time knew Dreamer wanted his help to overcome these bad instincts.

He purred more genuinely and gave a happy nuzzle when Dreamer licked him; the _last_ thing he wanted to do was make Dreamer afraid of him, so the reassurance was appreciated. “You still… not can fight me,” Wanderer said, an observation only.

Dreamer sighed. “It like before. I not…” He growled quietly to himself.

“What different for fight with alpha?” Wanderer asked, careful to keep his tone curious, as he had to admit he was a _little_ hurt that Dreamer apparently only had a problem with fighting him. Wrr, but there had been the teeth-hurts on his neck when they were separated…

“I not know,” the smaller Nightstriker said as he vacantly stared outside. “I just knew I needed fight alpha…”

So, it was only when he absolutely needed to? That sounded like Dreamer… though that didn’t explain the teeth-hurts…

Wanderer purred. Those hurts had been before they’d figured out what the problem was, and had been working to fix it. That had to be it. It shot down Wanderer’s hope of finally fighting him properly though, as the only way to accomplish that would be a real fight which he wasn’t willing to do; Dreamer was too smart to fall for a bluff, though he wouldn’t do that either.

Wrrr, Dreamer had been sullen long enough, time to break him out of it. “Now you tell Long-Paws your stupid plan?”

“Not stupid,” Dreamer growled, batting at him. “But… yes, we do that.”

A high bark left Wanderer’s throat as a wet tongue ran up the back of his ear, and he threw himself to the ground to rub it against the stone with agitated growls.

“See? It not nice.” Dreamer batted Wanderer’s snout a few more times, then hopped from the den.

* * *

_“You want – do_ what!?”

Wanderer rolled his eyes. He picked out the key Long-Paw words more readily every day, ignoring the meaningless words that strung them together, but the more he heard the less he really wanted to hear. They were a very energetic species, putting too much fire into their shots.

Take this, for example. Dreamer’s plan to visit the other Long-Paw nests was dangerous and reckless, but he was determined to do it anyway, and he was determined to do it now.

And now the Long-Paw fledgling-alpha was being very dramatic about it herself, gesturing wildly and shouting about danger and a lot of other words Wanderer could only guess the meaning of. He yawned and lay lazily on his side, fully intending the mild offense towards the outburst.

But he went completely ignored. _Huff_ , Long-Paws had no appreciation for anything not in their strange language. Maybe that was why they were so loud, each thing needed to be shouted at them for them to hear it.

Dreamer and Fish-Legs finished explaining, again, and the female began pacing. It was an inane and reckless plan, sure, but it didn’t really warrant all this fuss.

_“I need – talk this – with – Chief,”_ she clicked and hummed. That was to be expected, apparently, Dreamer’s sire insisted on controlling everything everyone did. And, of course, Dreamer was going with her…

Wanderer weighed his options. A windy day, but sunny and warm, or listening to everyone _talk_. Well… maybe he would learn some new words. He had a feeling it would be useful where they were going.

This next talk turned out to be much more sensible, with Dreamer translating for him. The alpha was apparently happy for them to go – something about the other nests being nervous – on the condition they went with another Long-Paw, who was unfortunately not present. The sire of the rock-head, Dreamer explained, was a sort of sub-alpha so that more alpha things could be done. That sounded complicated, how many alpha things could need doing? Hrrr, though Long-Paws did do everything very differently.

Wanderer tried to commit to memory the hiss, click, and growl that made the name of the sub-alpha, the rock-head’s sire. The hardest part about it was he was incapable of making the sounds himself, so they were somehow quiet when he tried to think them.

Before long, however, he was regretting not sunbathing or swimming instead. There was a lot of talking going on, Dreamer was translating but it really wasn’t interesting or engaging so it was hard to match the words to the meanings.

He was unwittingly drifting into a nap when he heard the den-mouth close, and pulled an eye open to see the Long-Paw fledglings had left them alone with Dreamer’s sire. As nice as the fire was, though, he didn’t really want to nap here, and Dreamer didn’t look like he wanted to nap at all. Wanderer stretched with a yawn, happy to go flying or something instead; it sounded like the wind might have calmed a little.

* * *

The sooty lantern burned into life, doing a poor job of lighting the room furnished with a sturdy but old desk and bed, but for some reason Alvin preferred working in the dark. Fuel was common and simple to smuggle, so it was not an expensive habit.

Particularly when Berk and its dragons were within reach. His sources reported tamed dragons were not only useful for transport and burden, but also for the resources they naturally provided, some of which were generously “shared” with the Outcast network. After the report of the “queen” dragon and its downfall, Alvin had worried about the fate of his Archipelago without a constant supply of dragons, but it seemed Berk had the answer. An even better answer than his own mixed success with stolen fledglings.

And he wanted it. Whoever controlled the dragons controlled the Archipelago.

With a sigh, he began sifting through the crate of sealed reports, setting aside the less interesting islands to peruse later and vainly hoping for something from Berserk; as easy as it was to plant people there, they were not afforded any real freedom to move around.

One parchment caught his eye as it rolled and the name tilted into view – _Berk_.

He rubbed the stump on his right arm with a scowl. News from Berk was always about how great the island was to live on and how they were constantly doing the impossible, but that news would eventually be the key to taking power. He missed Mildew’s reports, they had always painted a wonderfully bleak and miserable picture.

However, this parchment looked longer than normal. Alvin reluctantly cracked the seal and skimmed the first few lines, expecting the usual drivel… then went back and started reading properly.

So they weren’t completely impervious to dragon attacks after all. Although, those damnable Night Furies had been the ones to pull them from the fire, so it seemed likely most other tribes would not have survived…

Five marks against that note, another six on the outside. Five days before it was collected, six days in transit, so the information was eleven days old; a simple and foolproof system.

But it didn’t end there. There was another section of news, only three marks against it. He read through it sceptically… and then a second time with a wide grin. _This_ was something he could work with, a big piece of a plan he’d been wrestling with for some time, and it opened another door that would allow him to try _so many_ things in the meantime…

* * *

The Hooligans were a progressive tribe. Constant raids forced swords into everyone’s hands, and it was hard not to respect someone who saved your life regardless of gender; this had an additional benefit of gaining the respect of the Bog Burglars, who consisted entirely of women. Slavery had also been abolished generations ago, for being inefficient in the harsh extremes the island was subjected to.

But, when it came down to it, they were still Vikings. Something that Dreamer was unexpectedly reminded of, as he sheltered from the firm wind in the mouth of his den, by three longboats pulling into the docks and beginning to unload large baskets of loot.

The boats had been visibly low in the choppy water, but it was surprising they’d made the full journey at all – just over a week’s sailing – given how much was being heaved up the ramps. Gobber would have a field day with all the metals being brought in, and some of it shone in a way that could only be gold and silver.

And what exactly were they going to do with all that? Had it really been necessary to go and take it from others, at the cost of lives? Dreamer growled his disagreement.

An enquiring warble sounded behind him, and gentle footsteps preceded a nose nudging his shoulder. Dreamer huffed and gestured at the activity on the docks, and Wanderer hummed thoughtfully. He probably didn’t get it, but Dreamer didn’t feel like explaining. There was no guarantee he _would_ get it – or want to, given how much raiding he himself had done – so Dreamer just huffed and stalked back inside, tail flicking irritably.

Wanderer trotted around and lay in front of him, noses claw-lengths from each other, with his tail twitching in amusement. Dreamer snorted and shifted his head a bit, and Wanderer copied him.

…

A paw lashed out, but Wanderer copied that too and they batted each other away. They both snorted in agitation, then blinked in surprise; except Wanderer was grinning happily. _Oh great, I really am that predictable._

Dreamer huffed again and tucked his head against his side. For Wanderer to copy him now, he’d have to look away as well. Too easy.

His ear flicked as something irritated it, and then again. He looked up to give his friend a tired glare, receiving an innocent look back. A quiet warning growl didn’t faze him, so Dreamer tucked his head under his wing.

Something tickled the tip of his wing, which he threw off to grab at whatever was annoying him – Wanderer’s wing. It wasn’t pulled back but was difficult to grab, so he rolled onto his side to swipe and try to grapple it with both paws, and then ended up on his back.

Wanderer reared and dropped himself bodily on him. He was still a lot bigger, and two of Dreamer’s paws were pinned under himself, so he couldn’t just be thrown off. Dreamer shoved a hindpaw out of his face, then swatted at the flank laying across his neck, but Wanderer just purred loudly and curled up a little. Biting the paw likewise went ignored.

Dreamer gave up with a sigh. His friend made it impossible to mope, and he couldn’t even just stay annoyed with warm breaths playing pleasantly down his flank and a purr rumbling into his midsection.

Who needed things to be happy? Hiccup had surrounded himself with things, making new ones constantly, but it had never done him any real good. Wrrr, though Long-Paws were significantly more fragile in practically every respect, they couldn’t even survive without clothes, houses, fishing boats, and so on. When he was Hiccup, he’d surrounded himself with things to make up for his shortcomings. All Long-Paws did the same thing, just on a smaller scale.

As a dragon, he no longer needed things. He did miss the problem solving and meticulous crafting involved in inventing something, but he could take or leave it. With no end product he really wanted, he had no inspiration or desire for it.

He wished he could share this peace with–

…Never mind. The whole point of Vikings striving to reach Valhalla was to _avoid_ peace.

There was something fundamentally wrong with that, but what could he do? Vikings _wanted_ to fight and kill each other, to die in battle, and depriving them of that felt disrespectful. On the other paw, letting them throw their lives away felt callous.

Wanderer fidgeted, and Dreamer was brought from his thoughts by teeth biting into his tail. He yipped and squirmed in surprise, but the weight on him held too firmly for him to really do anything about it. A tongue quickly soothed the discomfort, and he relaxed again.

Dreamer growled half-heartedly, _just let me mope you useless reptile._ Well, just like with the dragon laying on him, there wasn’t a lot Dreamer could do to change Vikings without outright fighting over it. The most he could hope to do was stop them slaughtering dragons, who most definitely did not want to be killed for the fun of it, and show them how to get along. But Spitelout would want a few days on Berk before heading off again.

But once those few days were up… he could _finally_ start to make the world a better place…

* * *

Wanderer stretched his wings and yawned, bored of waiting. Long-Paws had a funny definition of “now”, as after summoning the Nightstrikers to leave “now” they were _still_ running around collecting things.

The fledgling-alpha pouted as she watched, having been told by the alpha she needed to stay behind. It was logical, she was a sort of sub-alpha and sub-Fish-Legs, so would take care of both their duties while they were gone; whatever they actually did, Wanderer didn’t really know or care.

He groaned his boredom, wondering what Dreamer had managed to occupy himself doing, then tilted his head as the Rock-Scale waddled over and growled a pleasant greeting. What had Dreamer said her name was again? Food-Carry? That couldn’t be right.

He stood and took a step back, warbling _uncertain,_ when she wagged playfully; she was much rounder and heavier than him. But she waddled away to uproot a nearby stick that was in the ground, and waved it enticingly at him. She tried to swing it out of the way of his lunge, but he was too fast! He tugged on the sturdy wooden length, though it didn’t budge at all, and then she tilted her head and he found himself dangling.

_“Meatlug!”_ The name was said scoldingly, and they both looked guiltily over at Fish-Legs, Wanderer still halfway into the air – at least until she dropped it, and him with it. Fish-Legs sighed.

Dreamer trotted up a few moments later and batted his head a few times. “Not play with that,” he chastised, grabbing one end and tugging on it, then growled when Wanderer didn’t let go.

He tugged harder, and Wanderer tugged back and growled playfully. “No!” Dreamer said as he growled around the stick.

“Yes!” Wanderer shook happily, jostling the stick and Dreamer with the word. He put all his weight into another tug and Dreamer staggered forward before finding his paws again and planting them firmly.

_“– one way – this,”_ Fishlegs mumbled, walking up beside them. A tie-breaker? He didn’t need it, he would eventually–

He automatically leaned into a firm scratch on his neck, then collapsed onto his side with a happy groan as it found the sensitive spot behind his jaw. _Hrrr, that not fair…_ But Dreamer was similarly collapsed in front of him, so maybe it was.

_“If you- not do- -thing, can you help – these two –?”_ Fishlegs asked the fledgling-alpha as he picked up the stick.

_“They – playing,”_ she said dejectedly, but happily approached Wanderer and dove right into some blissful scratching around his shoulders and chest. His claws flexed and tensed, but her blunt paws could do him no harm and her broad Long-Paw-claw was dangling uselessly by her side… and he did trust her, to some height. So he stretched out and enjoyed the tiny, soft and blunt claws over his chest.

Dreamer tried to nose his way in on it, but Wanderer swatted at him. He could wait his turn, or find something else to do. He wasn’t the one who had been laying around in boredom for half the morning.

The female – he knew her name to be _Astrid_ , he just found it difficult to think of her as that – started scratching at Dreamer too, but that meant she was paying less than half of her attention to Wanderer now. He huffed and grabbed the Long-Paw’s foreleg, then pulled it back to himself.

She laughed and gave him both paws again, and he flexed and stretched with a purr… only for Dreamer to nudge his head under her paws again.

Wanderer growled and swiped at him – then flipped upright as Dreamer staggered back with a shrill cry of pain.

Had he clipped his eye or something? Wanderer was always sure to be _very_ careful about that, but he’d been distracted… he tried to check him over, but Dreamer turned away and blocked him off with a wing. That wasn’t very fair, he had to know it’d been an accident…

Wanderer paced as the Long-Paw checked Dreamer’s face, murmuring to herself and then settling down with Dreamer’s head on her legs to gently stroke and scratch him. She didn’t seem to think he was hurt, and he was starting to purr…

Wanderer tilted his head with a suspicious rumble… and Dreamer gave him a sideways toothy grin. All a ruse! _That eel-sniffer!_ Wanderer paced again with a growl, but the Long-Paw growled a few Long-Paw words at him and then cooed at Dreamer.

This was _very_ unfair. He stalked around in front of Dreamer and silently glared at him from claw-lengths away, but he had his eyes closed and his grin only got wider; his ears and frills also went up in amusement, and promptly received scratches under and between them. _Sss_ , Wanderer was going to make him _regret_ this later…

At least it wasn’t long later that Fish-Legs announced they were leaving now, _again_ , but this time he seemed to mean it. He still didn’t mount his Rock-Scale, but he didn’t run off to do anything else either, just stood there impatiently as if waiting for something.

There were already the two Nightstrikers, the Rock-Scale, and the Spine-Tail, plus the two Long-Paws. And… a third Long-Paw and his Fire-Scale, who had just made a blustering landing amidst the little gathering outside the tree-den, carrying a bulging not-skin.

Wanderer huffed. This was going to be a long flight…

 

* * *

“Tha’ be it up ahead!”

Fishlegs peered through the afternoon haze at where Spitelout was steering them, spotting a vague outline that could just as easily be land as his imagination. Just went to show how often he’d made this trip, he supposed.

It hadn’t been an overly long flight to the unimaginatively named Meathead Islands, about half of the short afternoon. It was sort of difficult to tell how long a flight would take; when currents had no bearing on flight and winds had different effects, there was no strict conversion between sail and wing. Fishlegs estimated dragons to be between five and twenty times faster than boats, depending on the journey and weather.

Five dragons approaching the island would probably not be received well, so Spitelout went on ahead. Fishlegs could see him holding the shield aloft as he descended, and the scramble of defences on the ground.

He winced as Kingstail hovered next to the docks; until they were provided hospitality it would be considered trespass to set foot or paw on the island, but Nadders were not well suited to hovering. Hopefully this could be resolved quickly, and they would need to consider alternatives for future, as deciding whether to give hospitality could often take quite a long time. Maybe some sort of off-shore platform, or an envoy on Gronckle…

It wasn’t _too_ long before Spitelout was riding a thermal up to meet them again, and pulled into the formation where they wheeled above the ocean. “We’re ter wait the Chief’s word, an’ been _cautioned_ against flyin’ over the island.”

“That’s fair,” Fishlegs agreed. “We’re good for a while longer. Aren’t we girl?” He scratched the back of the scaly neck in front of him, and Meatlug chattered back happily. Movement caught his eye, the Furies having some aerial fun to pass the time. At least Hiccup would know better than to do any Night Fury dives here, didn’t need to go scaring the Meatheads now of all times.

They wheeled for quite some time before a small group approached the docks and stood there. “Well, time ter find ou’ wha’s wha’,” Spitelout said cheerily and nudged Kingstail into a dive.

He again hovered by the docks and presumably spoke with the party, then edged along and set down on a pier. “Guess that means we’re good, come on Fishface,” Snotlout called over, and Hookfang folded his broad wings to plummet down after him. Fishlegs followed suit, albeit quite a bit slower.

They were regarded warily by maybe forty warriors, all armed with bolas and blades, but the eyes that didn’t stick to the enormous Nightmare covering an entire pier by himself were gawking at the Furies.

“Ah know we did get nae as many attacks as Berk, bu’ ah know mah dragons,” said a large man with a big curly beard, an eye patch, and a tall wooden leg as he stomped forward. “E’sept them ones. An tha’ would make them yer Nigh’ Furies, no?”

Spitelout nodded to Fishlegs, who cleared his throat. “That’s right. The smaller one is Hiccup, and the larger is Toothy.” Each Fury nodded at their name, though their eyes remained warily scanning the weapons held ready. Fishlegs had no doubt they would suddenly be well out of range if anyone so much as hefted a bola. “Stoick has told you about them at the Thing, but would you like me to recap anything in particular right now? I can give a more detailed–“

“Yeah,” Mogadon rudely cut him off, “yeh can tell me wha’ they’re _doin’_ here.”

“Jus’ a frien’ly visit to our allied neighbours,” Spitelout said casually. “The Furies are here a’cause they wanted ter be, an’ it’s no in our interests ter hide them away like secret weapons.”

_“Are_ they weapons?” Mogadon asked sceptically.

“No. An’ that’s wha’ we’re here ter show you.”

The Meathead Chief ran his fingers through his beard as he mulled that over. “Aigh’ then. The condition stands, though. Yer dragons must burn their shots in the water afore yer granted access ter my island.”

“Hol’ on, boyo,” Spitelout called over to his son, who had started turning Hookfang around. “Got a spare barrel?” Mogadon eyed him suspiciously, but jerked his head at an aide who ran off and returned with a standard iron-bound barrel. “To the Nightmare, lad,” Spitelout told him.

The young man was reluctant to get too close, dropping the barrel and pushing it the last few feet onto the docks, well out of range of any claws or teeth, before scurrying back. “Hookfang, fill,” Spitelout ordered tersely, and Snotlout boggled as his dragon prowled to the barrel and took it in his mouth. There was a gurgling sound, and then he released it and awkwardly edged back.

“Fishface, we are going to have _words_ later,” Snotlout growled through gritted teeth. What was he complaining about? He already knew about this.

But Mogadon wasn’t paying attention. He was busy staring at the near-full barrel of pure and highly flammable Monstrous Nightmare gel. “A gift,” Spitelout said casually. Before the Green Death had been killed the stuff had been extremely valuable, belonging to one of the most dangerous dragons and being notoriously difficult to extract from a corpse. Now, Fishlegs and Spitelout had worked – behind Snotlout’s back, it later transpired – to get Hookfang providing a constant supply of it, and it was stockpiled high. This was nothing.

“Tha’… is appreciated,” the Chief said slowly, then shook his head and gestured to two of his tribesmen to take it. “Can the others…?”

“Nah, jus’ the Nightmare,” Spitelout said neutrally as he turned Kingstail and had him burn the water in bursts. Fishlegs did the same, prompting Meatlug to fire her six shots with hisses and clouds of steam.

“An’ the Furies,” Mogadon said in a low voice.

“They don’t have any fire, not yet,” Fishlegs explained. “They’re too young.”

“Tha’s a migh’y _convenient_ explanation…” An atmosphere of tension rose, adjusting grips on weapons and shuffling feet, and the Furies slowly spread their wings.

“Ah, er, well, why would we lie?” He was blowing into the sail now, but he had to try. “They’re _Night Furies._ If they wanted to use their fire, they’d do so from waaaay up there.” He pointed up at the clouds.

“Wha’ the boy is _tryin’_ ter say,” Spitelout cut in, “is tha’ they got a bow an’ arrow, an’ they jus’ walked up ter shake yer hand.”

Mogadon ran his fingers through his beard again. “Ah see yer point. Can’ say ah like it, bu’ ah suppose there’s no way ter prove it. Aigh’ then. Ah offer hospitality, on the condition tha’s already been met, an’ tha’ the Nigh’ Furies ‘ave no fire.” The unspoken part of that was that if either Fury was caught breathing fire, the lot of them would be killed on the spot and sent straight to Hel. Thankfully, Fishlegs had it on good authority that wasn’t possible.

“We accept, on the condition tha’ none approach any o’ the dragons withou’ our consent,” Spitelout said carefully. “For their own safety.” Mogadon nodded and the tension bled out of the air, both sides of the meeting visibly relaxing, and then the Meatheads parted to allow them access to the island.


	24. Envoy

Meathead Island – or, to be more specific, South Island of the Meathead Islands – was a verdant land. Even the village sported scraggly green trees, some of which had kids climbing through them, and the grass was green and soft.

Dreamer happily bounded around within their circle of influence as it moved through the village, smelling everything he could reach and rolling in particularly green patches. The blades of grass were so soft that most of his scales didn’t even notice them, but they pleasantly tickled his wings and underside. He looked forward to being allowed to roam later, there were some out-of-the-way patches of longer grass that looked even softer and more inviting.

He noticed that Wanderer was also avidly sniffing everything, but not nearly as enthusiastically and nor was he enjoying the grass. Dreamer chirped and happily bounded around him, but he just snorted derisively and kept a wary eye.

Hrrr, maybe he would relax later. Dreamer was particularly looking forward to the inevitable feast, as the Meatheads were so named for their culinary prowess involving meat; that was the polite reason, anyway. Even meat bought from them and cooked elsewhere was just better, but it still didn’t compare to what they cooked themselves.

At least, that was what everyone else said. He grimaced as he remembered the only time he had been here before, when he’d brought along a harmless little spinning toy he’d made that had, via a series of exceptionally unfortunate circumstances, culminated in a yak charging through the village whilst on fire. That one he truly could not have been blamed for, he thought, but it had only been down to his toy and a mountain of bad luck; it was easier to punish him than misfortune, thus he hadn’t even been allowed to attend the feast.

So he was very much looking forward to it now, particularly with his new appreciation of meat.

They were led towards the Great Hall in the centre of the village, though it was strange to consider a wooden structure as such. Every village defended themselves differently, and the Meatheads had commissioned the Lava Louts for slate. It apparently worked for them, at least for this one building, though they hadn’t been raided nearly as often as Berk so there was a much lower risk of needing to rebuild it.

It was a tall structure, visible for quite some distance, with the typically tall and steep roof to prevent the build-up of snow, though the slate made it strangely dark. Heavy windows, high up the walls and hinged at the top, were propped open by broad wooden poles.

 _“Can’t yeh calm ‘em a bi’? They’re makin’ the escort nervous.”_ Dreamer turned to see Spitelout talking quietly to Fishlegs as he walked beside Kingstail, keeping a heavy hand on the wary dragon’s neck.

 _“Can’t you calm them a bit?”_ Fishlegs shot back sardonically, walking beside his own dragon. _“They’re making the dragons nervous.”_ Dreamer stifled his laughter; he probably shouldn’t be laughing at that, but hearing Fishlegs build some witty confidence was amusing to no end.

It _was_ a conundrum though, the Meatheads and dragons were making each other increasingly nervous, but that hopefully wouldn’t be an issue much longer. Dreamer returned to happily sniffing everything, hoping to offset the tension a bit. The scents were all familiar, that of Long-Paws, leafage, leather, dirt, and so on, but every scent was slightly different. The grass smelled greener, the dirt tangy and wet, the people more pungent. It was also strange to smell bark and leaves, both fresh and rotting, that had fallen from the occasional trees and been scattered around; Berk had barely a shrub in the village itself.

They arrived uneventfully, Spitelout and Mogadon coming to another quick agreement at the threshold, and then Snotlout was told to wait outside. He had to be told what an important job it was, and it _was;_ Dreamer had doubts he was even up to the task should there be a problem, though there shouldn’t be. Hopefully. No problem with leaving a bunch of dragons in the middle of a Viking village.

He blinked as the door was shut in his face, abruptly reminding him that he was one of those dragons himself. Wrrr, at least he could keep an eye on Snotlout, though he had to resist the temptation to paw and yowl at the door. Some of this was to be expected, for now.

That didn’t mean he had to like it. He grumbled and sat on his haunches, eyeing what was going on in the village.

They had a guard of some dozen warriors, spread around the perimeter of the group, and while their weapons were not in hand they were obviously ready to arm themselves at a moment’s notice. Behind them, villagers went about their lives; some of them glancing at the dragons and hurrying past, others hanging around to gawk. There would be time to get to them later, the plan was to stay a week or two.

He took a moment to inspect each of the guards’ faces, looking for the telltale signs; twitching of the muscles around the mouth, glancing at the other guards, whether the eyes were tense or wide. Body language, and the communication of raw feelings and intent without spoken words, were becoming so ingrained in him he had started recognising the unconscious, unspoken cues of his former race.

His incredibly sharp eyes were a big part of it though. He could see the twitching nose hair, indicative of flaring nostrils, on one guard some fifteen paces away. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was able to discern that as a sign of distrust and aggression from the more curious twitching of the man next to him, but he could.

A squeaky yawn made it laughably easy. Five he instantly assigned red flags to, jaws tense and hands twitching for their weapons at the innocuous sound, but two were showing more signs of curiosity than of aggression. One was between two of the flagged guards, so Dreamer calmly padded up to the other and stood up on his hindlegs just out of axe range.

As expected, the attention of all the guards was onto him the moment he started moving – Hookfang’s derisive show of falling asleep was, typically, being misinterpreted – but he was just focused on this one man. No doubt Wanderer would gauge the reactions of the others, wary as he was.

The man he’d approached furrowed his brow in a confused curiosity, and while his axe-hand tensed it didn’t twitch. Dreamer flared his frills and tilted his head, wondering what the man would do.

He didn’t get to find out, his attention taken by the sound of the heavy door opening behind him.

* * *

The Hooligan Chief had made a lot of claims, ranging from unlikely to downright ludicrous. A dragon the size of a mountain? Such a thing would not have gone unnoticed for hundreds of years. And yet, nobody could deny that right as he’d made that claim, there had been no more raids.

Then there was the matter of the dragons they’d taken in. It was a wise choice to openly admit that from the start, but that was the same for if the claims of peace were truth or lies.

Mogadon was openly suspicious. Trade with Berk had dropped dramatically in the last two years, and now they had a potentially very deadly weapon that could be anywhere almost instantly. They’d left at noon, Spitelout had said! That day! A two-day boat journey reduced to half an afternoon.

He watched the squat boy pull open the big door and call outside. Mogadon didn’t like the idea of admitting dragons into his Hall, but nor did he want to be openly hostile to the wildcard that was Berk, at least not for such a small reason.

Two dark shadows stepped inside, the first dragons to see inside these walls since they’d been built. They glanced around curiously, claws clicking on the wood as they walked to the Chief’s table where Mogadon sat on his throne, a big but simple seat of solid wood.

The Night Furies weren’t offered a seat – that was too much to ask – and sat neatly on the floor off to the side of the table, a casual axe-toss away. They surprised him by bowing their heads slightly, though their eerie green eyes remained on him.

“So. These be Stoick’s pet Furies, eh?”

Hands went to hilts as two quiet growls echoed in the empty Hall. “Not pets, no,” the squat boy said matter-of-factly, holding a hand towards the dragons to quiet them. “They are intelligent and think like us, these two more than the others. As you may have gathered, they even understand Norse, or enough of it, anyway.”

Well, that they understood _something_ was clear, having instantly taken offence. “Wha’, then?” He wouldn’t voice his other guesses; one insult was enough for now.

The boy, Fishlegs, scratched his temple. “I don’t really know how to put it to words. They’re considered part of the tribe, but they aren’t really.” He watched the Furies for a moment. “They say it’s convenient. They help out here and there, and don’t risk going hungry. It’s pretty much the same for us too, their help and companionship is worth a few fish.”

 _“They_ say? Do no get smart with me, boy.” Teaching a few words to an animal was one thing, teaching them to speak back was entirely another.

“Their talk is nae all sounds,” Spitelout interjected. “The lad can read it on ‘em somehow. Yeh can dig inta tha’ later, if yeh want.” It wasn’t like Spitelout to show anything other than complete composure, but he sounded impatient, and his eyes kept flicking to the door.

Perhaps that wasn’t unwarranted, there were dragons sat in the middle of the village; something was bound to happen eventually.

“Aigh’ then. Le’s forge’ the ‘ow fer now.” Mogadon leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. “Wha’s the real reason yer ‘ere?”

“We told you–“

“An ‘alf-truth,” Mogadon cut the boy off. “Berk fough’ off a Berserker armada. Ain’t nobody wanna figh’ you lot ‘less yeh give ‘em reason. An’ now, of all times. Wha’s changed?” He settled his one eye on the Night Furies. “An’ wha’ der _they_ have ter do with it?”

Fishlegs fidgeted nervously. “Unofficially?” He shared a look with Spitelout, who nodded with a shrug. “He asked to come.”

The smaller Night Fury walked forward a few steps, then sat down again.

Mogadon absently ran his fingers through his beard. He had pressed for answers knowing that there was a reason they had had been abstracted, but this was still a little far-fetched. And yet, the dragon was cooperating. Had Stoick himself been here Mogadon would have suspected manipulation of some sort, but this boy, although intelligent, was only speaking his mind.

He hated all this political manoeuvring, thinking in circles like this was giving him a headache. It was far easier to just assume that these Hooligans really were what they were saying, just a peaceful envoy here to improve relations. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Stoick, the man was honest to a fault, just that he had clearly been more than a little unstable over the last few years.

And the sort of things an unstable man might turn to… such as some way to control the beasts that had killed his runt of a son. Mogadon wanted to trust, but fantasies were not a luxury a Chief was afforded.

On the other hand, if Berk _could_ control dragons and wanted the Meathead Islands, there wouldn’t be a lot stopping them. That simplified things, it was in Mogadon’s interests to play along either way.

“Aigh’ then. Wha’ does it intend on doin’ here?”

The Night Fury made a strange mellow sound, catching his attention, then twitched and fidgeted with a few more sounds. “He says, ‘I want to show Vikings we don’t want to fight. I want to show you how to make peace with… my kind.’”

There was a strange hitch to the way the boy said those last few words, but at this point that could mean anything. Mogadon was even less convinced they were even talking now, there was no way those few sounds communicated that much. “And wha’ does it gain by doin’ tha’? Nobody ever downed a Nigh’ Fury afore ‘Iccup.”

More fidgeting and mellow barking. “Without constant raids, humans will expand, colonise new islands. It’s better if we meet with words instead of swords and claws.” Fishlegs scratched his cheek. “It’s not an exact translation, but that’s the general message.” The dragon nodded at him.

That was incredibly insightful, even were it coming from a Viking… Mogadon was still considering it all when both Furies suddenly spun their heads to look back at the doors, ears standing straight up. “Oh man, do I need to get out there?” Fishlegs asked the dragon, then listened to the apparent reply. “Yeah, alright. Erm, sorry Chief, but we should wrap this up before something happens out there. Anything else you want to know? We can go over details when we’re settled.”

“Ah think ah’ve got enough ter mull over fer now.” He was at least pretty sure they weren’t intending on burning the village down in the immediate future. “Ah’ll show yer to somewhere yeh can sleep, an’ ah think we can clear ou’ a barn or somethin’ fer yer dragons…”

* * *

Wanderer didn’t know how he felt about this. It was so wrong in so many ways, a crazy illogical Long-Paw thing that made absolutely no sense. And yet, he had to admit there was a certain level of genius to putting a wing-prey inside a land-prey, and then that inside a bigger land-prey.

Although, he’d lost some of his appetite after watching _how_ such a thing was achieved.

He wondered what they were going to do with the insides that had been removed to make room. Some of them had been used already, but there was a shallow hollow-tree-thing with a sizeable mound of good meat, the types needed to stay healthy.

 _“Toothy, that- not for you,”_ the rock-head chided happily.

Dreamer surreptitiously brushed his side with a wingtip and Wanderer glanced over, quickly catching on and adopting the look; staring up at the female handling the meat with big dilated eyes, frills out a little, wings tucked to his sides, and so on.

Most of the male Long-Paws were immune to such methods, but nearly all the females were highly suggestible, and this one was no exception. She glanced at them, then locked her eyes as if she could not look away, her expression softening and lifting. It took only moments for a few wet organs to be dropped onto the grass and snapped up. It was good to get some now, as the Long-Paws did strange things to them that usually made them unappetising, so they weren’t likely to get any later.

Dreamer then apparently decided it would be a good idea to gum his face. Wanderer sat there and endured it in confusion for a moment, then batted him off with an irritated chirp. Dreamer had an approving, mischievous expression, and rolled over to wave his legs in the air.

_“Awww, – cute!”_

That was a word Wanderer understood to mean that they liked him and he was likely to get whatever he wanted, but also that they would watch him as much as to be uncomfortable. Wrrr, though Dreamer didn’t seem to mind it.

 _“–, they – fast-, strong- dragon –,”_ the rock-head said in a low hum, gesturing to the Nightstrikers. _Hrph_ , of course they were the strongest and fastest _‘dragon’_ , whatever that meant. The rock-head earned no respect for noticing the obvious, but Wanderer _did_ appreciate the praise, flaring his wings a little and holding himself high.

Dreamer huffed and rolled to his paws. “He say good things about us for make himself sound good.”

“What?” Wanderer responded with a low, surprised bark. “That not make sense. He say we good, why that mean he good?”

“Because…” Dreamer fidgeted, then sighed and started walking to the rock-head. “I stop him, not worry. But he talk like we his.”

Wanderer growled angrily at that, but Dreamer had already said he was handling it. Both Long-Paws stopped talking to stare at him, and he met the rock-head’s confused gaze levelly. Which allowed Dreamer to walk around behind him and climb onto his back.

Of course, Dreamer had grown many times bigger since the last time he had done that, so really all he was doing was rearing up and draping paws over his shoulders. The unexpected weight staggered the rock-head, but he remained upright with some difficulty.

 _“What – you doing!?”_ he barked in _confusion, concern,_ but Dreamer ignored him to knock away the horned thing with his nose. The exclamation became _panic, disgusted,_ as a torrent of drool ran over the fur on his head.

The female laughed uproariously while the rock-head struggled, which was totally futile until Dreamer decided to let him go with a little push. He stumbled forward, then bent over and shook his head and tried to paw the saliva out of his head-fur.

It wasn’t as if Dreamer had licked behind his ear or anything, but this Long-Paw seemed to really hate it. Wanderer purred, committing that little tactic to memory for future use.

“We show these Long-Paws we fast?” Dreamer asked mischievously, flaring his wings.

Who needed an excuse? Wanderer leapt into the air by way of reply, and they soared and whipped around on the strong thermals above the nest.

* * *

“Alright there Fishlegs?”

Fishlegs looked up from the crackling fire in the wan light to see Thuggory, a hulk of a teen, approach with a leg of mutton in each hand and very pointedly sit down next to him. The Furies, sat to the side of the fire, looked over in surprise. Some Meatheads had worked up the nerve to wander over and ask some questions or offer food at least, but none were comfortable actually sitting there with them.

“Uh, yeah, actually. Seriously, what _did_ you do to this boar, this is incredible!”

Thuggory grinned at him. “Wouldn’ you like to know. Clan secret.” He finished off one of the legs and tossed the bone into the fire with a shower of sparks. “Kinda sucks when we go somewhere else and have to eat their _lame_ food though. Ah well. So these are the runt’s pet dragons eh?”

Hiccup snorted, then slowly and casually walked into the fire to retrieve the bone, totally unfazed by the tall flames and brightly glowing coals. “…Okay, gotta admit that was pretty impressive,” Thuggory allowed.

“Yeah well at least they’re not laying in it, they do that too. And I’d be wary speaking ill of the dead, there’s no way Hiccup went anywhere but Valhalla after going out like he did.” His own sort of Valhalla, in a way.

“So I heard,” Thuggory rumbled quietly before tearing into the second leg. He looked annoyed about something. “How big, really, was the thing he killed?”

“Hmm. About as big as that island to the east of The Slice of Death.”

Thuggory paused mid-chew, then shook his head. “It’s true!” Fishlegs pressed.

“Maybe. Just hard to believe the runt took down something that big.”

Fishlegs caught a few words between Hiccup and Toothy, and was reminded of the mauling of Snotlout. “Uhh, you might want to stop calling him that,” he advised quietly.

“What?” Thuggory asked with his mouth full. “Runt? He was ain’t he?” Toothy’s eyes were narrowed at Hiccup, who was ignoring him to chew the bone.

“Maybe he wasn’t big or strong, but it isn’t a nice term. He made up for it in other ways, evidently.” Heh, if only Thuggory knew how strong he was getting now…

“What’s he gonna do about it? Once a runt, always a–“

He was cut off by a wing loudly snapping out towards the fire, between Thuggory and Toothy. From where he sat, Fishlegs could see Toothy’s bared teeth and narrow eyes; Hiccup, aside from extending his wing, was otherwise ignoring the both of them. “Yeah, more because that ‘runt’s’ ‘pet’ dragons understand Norse. And they were rather fond of him.”

Thuggory scoffed, but Hiccup made eye contact with him and then very loudly cracked the bone he was chewing. “Prove it then,” he said to Hiccup. “Go sit in the fire.” Toothy chuckled at Hiccup’s reply, and Fishlegs snorted but otherwise held his silence. Thuggory looked between them, confused. “Somethin’ funny?”

“Maybe… He says he’ll sit in the fire after you do.”

“…Definitely Hiccup’s dragons. At least you got claws to back up that smart mouth.” He tossed the remains of the second leg to Toothy, who snapped it out of the air and looked at him in surprise.

Fishlegs was surprised as well. “You seem to be taking the ‘talking dragons’ part pretty well.”

“Yeah, well, that weren’t the sort of thing you’d say. You ain’t changed _that_ much. An’ that one,” he pointed at Hiccup, “got somethin’ in his eyes. The way he looks at things, like he _sees_ them.” The crackling of the fire was the only sound for a few moments. “I dunno, Chiefin’ goin’ to my head maybe,” he mumbled. “At least I’m no crazier than you are.”

Toothy chose this moment to loudly crack his bone open and noisily crunch into it.

“Wha’ d’ya think, son?” Mogadon asked as he lumbered into the light, waving at other fires as he passed them. It was an interesting way to feast, outside around individual fires, but it was actually quite pleasant, weather allowing. “They full’a smoke or wha’?”

“Spitelout pulled ‘imself away from ya then?” Thuggory asked back, taking the whole plate from a passing server and offering some to Fishlegs.

“Aye, did done a runner while ah sprung a leak.” He dropped onto the log opposite the Furies, then reached over to snatch a lump of meat from Thuggory. “Bah, let ‘im ‘ave some fun. ‘Tis a night to celebrate!” He hefted the tankard in his hand and drank deeply from it.

“You dragons had enough yet?” Thuggory called over, offering the plate.

Fishlegs and Toothy both scoffed. “They don’t get full, their bellies just get bigger.” Hiccup responded by widely opening his maw and then loudly snapping his teeth out; it got a small jump out of the Meathead heir, and then some meat was tossed over with a scowl.

Not to be totally outdone by the Chief and heir, other Meatheads began to join the fire until three sides were packed. One brave soul even plopped down next to the Furies, albeit on the other end of the log they sat in front of. Somehow the talk all spiralled into a big retelling of Hiccup’s Saga, Fishlegs was no skald but he felt he did the story justice at least. Hiccup only corrected him once, anyway.

True to Fishlegs’ word, the Furies just ate anything offered to them and showed no signs of slowing. There was a bit of a “don’t waste it on the dragons” attitude, but there was plenty of food to go around even as the night wore on, and eventually even the servers started tossing them things as they made less frequent rounds.

Fishlegs was listening to one of the Meatheads wrap up his story, of a strange and somewhat frantic recent encounter with a Thunderdrum, when there was a sudden and violent storm of movement between the Furies with a few growls and squeaks. Fishlegs jumped a little in surprise, but a few of the Meatheads actually fell off the back of the log they were sat on, including the one sat on their side of the fire.

“What’s gotten into you two all of a sudden?” he asked, a bit nervous about having frightened their hosts. Toothy ignored him, and wide-eyed Hiccup was busy having his head pushed into the ground.

The guy telling the story laughed awkwardly and tried to continue, but nobody was listening anymore, and he himself kept getting distracted as Toothy licked at Hiccup. Before long, even he fell into the awkward silence. At first Hiccup just grinned and rolled his eyes, relaxing with a purr, but soon there was another tense scuffle and Hiccup was then thoroughly pinned on his back, looking much less comfortable with the situation.

He squeaked, growled and groaned as Toothy, ignoring the one free paw swatting at his shoulder, went through their odd cleaning routine. Their very thorough and _personal_ cleaning routine; not that Toothy had any modesty whatsoever.

“Think I’m gonna turn in,” Thuggory suddenly declared, jolting to his feet and stiffly walking away. The Chief and others murmured similar intentions and made their own swift departures, leaving Fishlegs alone with the dragons. He sat there awkwardly, not wanting to interrupt but not able to just leave them on their own.

Though, it wasn’t long before there was another tense scuffle as the dragons parted, Toothy hopping back from wild slashing and baring his teeth in that feral grin that meant they were playing tricks on each other; something Fishlegs had pieced together after seeing it more than a few times.

 _“You do that before,”_ Hiccup grumbled as he cleaned his face.

 _“Yes, I still need get you then,”_ Toothy warbled consideringly, then leaned back from a few more swats.

“It might have helped your image a bit,” Fishlegs offered, catching the attention of both Furies. “I mean, helped show them you’re not just deadly killers, at least.”

Hiccup let out a low hum. _“Yes, maybe. We should play much next light.”_ He yawned widely, those fearsome teeth sliding out as he did so.

“Hey, what do you guys do with shed teeth?” Fishlegs asked, suddenly realising he’d never actually seen one laying around before. He had plenty of the other dragons’, to the point they were putting them aside to trade to Johann, but nothing resembling a Night Fury fang.

 _“Not shed,”_ Hiccup said lethargically. _“Make sharp in mouth.”_ He snapped his teeth in and out a few times, _snick snak snick snak._

“Wait, what!?” Fishlegs crossed the distance in a single step and ran a finger along the gums, though it just felt like a flat, hard surface under the flesh. He cursed the darkness under his breath, as the fire was dying down and–

A growl had him hastily withdraw his hand before the teeth snapped out again; _those_ he could see quite clearly, down to the wicked tapering. “Hey, why did you–“ He cut himself off as Hiccup just glared at him, then deliberately worked his mouth and neck. “Oh… Er, sorry… But, can I have a look tomorrow?”

Hiccup harrumphed, then shared a look with Toothy. _“We sleep now,”_ he said to Fishlegs. _“You can look, if get thing for me this night…”_

* * *

The vast array of mixed sounds of the Long-Paw nest, muffled through the thick flat trees of the big and hollow Long-Paw den, drew Wanderer out of a peaceful sleep. It hadn’t started peaceful, but at some point during the night Dreamer had thoroughly groomed him to a point he was able to relax.

Dreamer was here, and the Rock-Scale snoring nearby, though placid, was a friendly nest-kin and would fight for him if necessary. He suspected the Spine-Tail lounging near a wall would also fight, but didn’t know him quite as well. Between Dreamer’s ministrations and his full belly, his remaining unease had eventually given way to exhaustion.

He groped around himself for Dreamer, but found only the hard dirt ground of the den. There was a strange smell in the air, the same as on the things Fish-Legs had brought for Dreamer but much stronger, he must already be up. With a wide yawn, he blearily pulled himself to his paws and looked around, quickly locating the Nightstriker a short distance away. He was hunched over in a way that looked depressed and forlorn, but that Wanderer knew just meant he was intently focused on something in his Dreamer way.

After a satisfying stretch, Wanderer padded over and sniffed at one of the hollow things arrayed around Dreamer, then gagged and pawed at his nose. He had no idea what it was, but it smelled _bad_. What could Dreamer want with it?

In front of Dreamer was some of the soft and thin bark Long-Paws liked to make lines on, but these lines were colourful instead of the usual black. He tilted his head with a curious warble, watching Dreamer use his claw in various ways to spread the stinky stuff around. He recognised a tree, a Long-Paw den, and a Nightstriker curled up on some grass, but the rest were just blotches of colour to his eyes. It looked like he’d done better at some than others.

Dreamer grinned at him and gave him a nuzzle with a purr, apparently finished with what looked like another tree, then started on another. “I show Long-Paws I can do this. Show we smart.”

“Show _you_ smart. I not can do that.”

“You smart also.”

Wanderer snorted. He held no illusions about the difference in their intelligence, but Dreamer swatted at him. “You smart! You fly very good, much better than me.”

“I fly much _more_ than you,” Wanderer grumbled at him.

“Yes, I do this much also.”

That made a sort of sense, Wanderer supposed, he couldn’t really argue with it. Which only proved his own point, really, as Dreamer would probably be able to.

The den-mouth opened, letting much light inside, and Fish-Legs walked in. He stared at Wanderer a long moment, then glanced at Dreamer and rubbed his head with a quiet laugh. _“– that- why.”_

“Yes,” Dreamer responded without looking up, still making lines. “This good.”

Fish-Legs made a somewhat disbelieving noise. _“What- – with these?”_ he asked, nudging one of the things that had been set aside.

“Not can see those,” Dreamer explained, then gestured to the five in front of him; grass-colour, sky-colour, blood-colour, one that was simply darkness, and one that was just pale. “Only can see these.” He took one of the further ones in his claws and set it nearby. “What colour this?”

_“Yellow.”_

Dreamer nodded. “I see it grass-colour.” He pointed to a hollow-thing in front of him.

Curious, Wanderer peered into the grass-colour hollow-thing, trying not to take in too much of its scent, then the _yellow_ one. They smelled quite different – both still bad – and the latter was much lighter, but they _were_ the same colour. Long-Paws saw it differently? That was beyond comprehension.

Fish-Legs made a surprised noise. _“I – why you – grass yellow.”_ Dreamer made a confused sound and began looking over his lines again, and Fish-Legs noticed Wanderer tilting his head in confusion at the hollow-things. _“That- ‘paint’.”_ He pointed to the flat bark in front of Dreamer. _“That- – ‘painting’.”_

That might be a useful word, Dreamer did a lot of _painting_ with sand and sometimes dirt and in other things. He nodded in the Long-Paw way to show he understood.

The Rock-Scale waddled over and gave Fish-Legs a big lick, happily receiving some scratches, then Fish-Legs and Dreamer talked for a bit about what they were doing next. Something about showing the _painting_ later.

Fish-Legs opened the den-mouth again and let them out into the morning light. “You want fly?” he asked.

Both Nightstrikers snapped their wings out in response and waited for him to climb onto his Rock-Scale. “No sound-sight,” Dreamer reminded him, and Wanderer huffed in acknowledgement.

They leapt into the air and soared on the thermals rising from the nest in the warm light. After a brief but necessary trip over the sea they swooped and flipped and spun and just generally showed off while Fish-Legs hovered around them and called if they ventured too far. Many Long-Paws below even stopped walking around to stare up at them. Wanderer levelled next to Dreamer and stared _pleadingly_ at him.

Dreamer rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest, and Wanderer grinned happily as he folded his wings and dropped away. He snapped them back out near the ground and swooped back into the air, then folded everything to arc through it as little more than dead weight in a slow backflip. He threw his wings open again to pull up, narrowly missing the big tree-den in the middle of the nest, then held them in close to corkscrew back into the sky.

He totally let loose, showing off absolutely everything he could think of and pushing his whole body to its very limit. Finally, wings burning with exertion and chest heaving, he pulled up and levelled out next to Fishlegs. The awe in his expression was very satisfying.

“I not see all that before,” Dreamer warbled incredulously as he levelled next to him. “You fly very good.”

Wanderer did a happy roll in the air before they coasted back down to the ground. Some of the Long-Paws were making unnervingly loud noises, roaring and slapping their paws together loudly, but Dreamer and Fish-Legs didn’t appear nervous about it so he tentatively followed them down to land in a clearing.

Dreamer nodded slightly at the one-eyed alpha, the _Chief_ , as he approached them. The _Chief_ gave Wanderer a strange look, but then shook his head and smiled at him. Most of the words he was saying were new and unfamiliar, but he spoke _impressed, respect._

Four Nightstriker ears went straight up at the mention of _breakfast_ , the word for eating at the start of the light. Why they needed a different word for that over eating at any other time was beyond Wanderer, but apparently, they did. He bounded ahead and paced impatiently at the mouth of the big flat-tree-den while he waited for Fish-Legs to catch up, then followed his nose to the smell of food. He shouldn’t be hungry after eating so much the night before, but his stomach pawed at him regardless.

A young female Long-Paw brought out a tray for them shortly afterwards, staring at Wanderer for most of the time. He tilted his head at her, and she hid her mouth behind a paw before leaving. Well, it was of little consequence compared to the pile of food in front of him – eggs! When was the last time he’d had eggs? He snapped one up with a purr, they were one thing he absolutely agreed that was better to have cooked.

The two of them made short work of everything set in front of them, then were lazing around waiting for Fish-Legs when the rock-head approached.

_“…Fishlegs, what- you do – Toothy?”_

He perked his ears at his Long-Paw name and sat up to regard the rock-head.

 _“-not – me, they – play –“_ Fishlegs replied.

Wanderer blinked and stared between them, but they kept talking in words he didn’t know yet. “What they saying?” he asked Dreamer.

But Dreamer just shrugged and continued gnawing on the bone that’d come with the food, his frills twitching in an amusement he was trying to hide. Wanderer eyed him suspiciously, then gave himself a thorough shake just in case. Nothing felt unusual.

The sub-alpha poked his head in the door and barked at them, and Fishlegs gulped down the last few bits and led them outside.

“What we do this light?” Wanderer asked.

“Hrrr, we show scale-wing-hunters can do things. We maybe fly more. Show we smart.” He glanced around. “Nest-alpha, sub-alpha, here now.”

As long as the light would be interesting. The things Dreamer came up with always seemed to be one of three things; utterly boring, wildly exciting, or recklessly dangerous. So far it didn’t seem they would be flying for their lives, so he was just hoping it wouldn’t be boring.

The Long-Paws were all gathering and talking, but this nest’s sub-alpha was looking at him strangely. Wanderer glared back at him, he’d been the one insulting Dreamer the night before. But now, he was looking at Wanderer in confusion. _“Why – his ears yellow?”_ He asked Fish-Legs.

Wanderer barked in surprise, stood an ear out to the side where he could just about see it _wasn’t_ the expected black, then tackled Dreamer with a snarl.

* * *

“A dragon paintin’. Now ah seen everythin’.”

Fishlegs considered telling Chief Mogadon that he could also write, but that wasn’t common knowledge even on Berk. Granted, this was also sort of cheating as it wasn’t so much the _dragon_ Hiccup that had learned, but nobody had to know that.

Hiccup sat in front of a makeshift easel, basically just a board propped up, using a long claw in inventive ways to smear paint over the parchment. Fishlegs had no idea how he managed it, it all just looked like wonky lines and smears to him, until Hiccup finished with the area and moved on and it suddenly resolved into Stormfly's head; albeit with all the colours slightly wrong.

Toothy gave up trying to claw the paint off his ears, leaving a haphazard mess of black lines through the yellow, and stalked over to glare at Hiccup and what he was doing. It wasn’t long before he got the obvious idea for retribution.

“…Hokay, _now_ ah seen everythin’,” Mogadon corrected himself, as Toothy painted bright green patterns on Hiccup’s wing. Hiccup didn’t seem to mind, and even stretched it out for better access. The patterns were just random lines and occasional dots, but as Fishlegs looked there was a sort of evenness to it that was aesthetic in its own way. Hiccup finished the painting while his other wing was being painted, then inspected himself with an amused rumble.

"Hey, hold your wings out for me," Fishlegs asked, pulling a notebook from a pocket, then quickly sketched the patterns. While he did that, Toothy grumbled some more, then dunked his paw in the green and pressed it onto Hiccup's head. There was some grumbling and swatting, then Fishlegs had to finish the rest from memory as they tussled.

That gave him an idea, he should record paw prints in the new Book of Dragons… It would be useful for categorisation, and recognising the tracks of each dragon. He'd need to get a mould of a paw and then sketch it, except maybe for Terrors…

Hiccup got a paw in the red paint and subsequently a few stripes over Toothy, which caused him to hesitate. Toothy inspected the stripe down his wing with an unreadable expression… then perked happily and held it out. Hiccup blinked, then happily painted more defined and symmetrical shapes over him.

"Bi' o' a waste o' paint though," Mogadon grumbled unhappily.

"Well, not to them," Fishlegs replied. "And I'm learning things too, so not really." Mogadon knew better than to tell him what to do with it after Fishlegs had been traded it for promised labour. It was valuable, or at least not cheap, but they'd been intending on showing off some of the dragons' skills anyway so really they weren't losing anything. And it'd turned out over half the pots were useless anyway, as Hiccup apparently couldn't see them? That was weird to think about. He had a whole sheaf of tests to go through when they got time.

But that was a task for another day. "Anyway, so what do you think of them now? Not exactly the scary demons of legend, right?"

Mogadon combed his beard with his fingers. "Ah don' know wha' ter think ye'… bu' simple beasts they ain'…" He actually sounded a bit frightened, but having one's worldview turned on its head was a wild experience; Fishlegs would know.

"Definitely not," he agreed. "I think we're done here though. You can keep the painting, by the way. Let's go find Snotlout to escort these guys, unless you're okay with letting them-"

"No," Mogadon firmly cut him off, fixing him with an intense stare of his one eye. "They ain' ter be left unattended."

"Okay," Fishlegs said placatingly, holding his arms up. "It was just a suggestion."

* * *

The stranger beheld the island as he approached, a huge rock that reached for the highest of clouds in its majesty. He’d been here once before, but it was still impressive; nowhere else in the Archipelago could one get an idea of just how much _land_ there was all in one place.

He idly adjusted the sail, feeling for that point it pulled back the hardest, to speed him along the choppy water. It wasn’t a big boat, but enough for one man to spend on for a few days at sea, barring any particularly nasty weather. Still, just passing through the middle of spring as things were, it was a fine time to be out.

He was no Viking himself, not really, but knew their ways. He approached the dock slowly, respectfully, and tossed a loop of rope over a cleat to pull the boat in, but didn’t try to climb up.

“What business do you have here?” the slender girl standing above him asked. She had a head of tidy blonde hair and held herself proudly – possibly a little _too_ proudly, given her youth – and looked down her nose at him. Somehow, the Deadly Nadder standing further along the docks lent her a presence beyond her stature.

“I hear you have mastered the art of working with dragons,” the stranger said carefully. “Personally, I am fascinated with them, and would learn what you would teach me. Unfortunately, they do not seem much to like me in return.” He shook his head. “I have some skills in most things to offer.”

“Oh?” The girl made a short motion, and the Nadder hopped and flapped over to perch next to her, overlooking the comparatively tiny boat. “So this doesn’t bother you at all?”

He stared up at the dragon with wide eyes as it calmly regarded him. “Never in all my wildest dreams…” A dramatization, but he couldn’t deny it, the control they held over the beasts was incredible! He extended his hand up towards it, and it calmly leaned forward to sniff him–

The telltale narrowing of the eyes had him hastily withdraw his arm before teeth bit down on the air it had been occupying a moment before, and he stumbled back into the opposite side of the boat. While he was accustomed to general hostility from them, _this_ was something on another level! He would need to be careful around this one…

“Stormfly!” the girl shouted, sidling in front of the dragon and practically hanging out over the boat in the process. “What’s gotten into you!?” The Nadder hissed and paced the dock, trying to get around the girl, but she moved to remain in front of it and it didn’t seem to realise it could just go through her. “Thor’s hammer, you weren’t kidding about them not liking you. _Stormfly!”_

The Nadder, Stormfly, stopped pacing and stared at the girl. “Calm down girl, it’s okay. Go take a break.” She made a motion with her hand, then again more firmly when the dragon just hissed at her. Finally, it relented, flying up to perch on a nearby ledge up on the big cliff that separated the village from the sea, though it remained tense and watchful.

The stranger calmly pulled himself back up and straightened his simple tunic. “No harm done, learned that lesson the hard way,” he said with a grin, holding up the hook he had instead of a right hand.

“You’re a puzzle, and I know someone who loves puzzles. He’s not here right now, but I’m sure we’ll find something to keep you occupied in the meantime. Come on up.” She offered a hand – her left, as he couldn’t take her right – and he quickly secured the boat a bit more permanently before taking it and clambering up. “What’s your name?”

A wide grin slipped across his face, which he hid behind a gesture of straightening his long, thin moustache, as Astrid started leading him up towards the village. “They call me Aldin the Honest Farmer.”


	25. Reception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note for those who have seen the series but not read the books, the original Alvin was _not_ outcast from Berk, and as there's a lot I don't like about franchise Alvin I'm using the book version almost in his entirety. So there's no chance of anyone recognising him.

Astrid was going to have _words_ with her dragon later. What had _that_ been about? Someone floats in and she just attacks him out of nowhere!? Even now she was flitting from house to house as they moved through the village, keeping a wary eye on them.

They couldn’t have met before… could they? Astrid eyed the man’s long sleeves… There was no way he was from the Archipelago, Vikings wore no sleeves until they were at risk of frostbite. Cold encouraged muscles to work for warmth, and the body reacted by building fat, resulting in the traditional burly build. This man was tall and thin, and obviously unaccustomed to such traditions. There was also his accent, which sounded foreign.

No, she couldn’t know him. Before partnering with Astrid, Stormfly had been a raider for the Green Death, and Astrid certainly had never met him. She shot a glare at the Nadder.

Normally she would take the man to Stoick for at least an introduction, but today was Gripe Day so he was liable to be tied up until much later. Spitelout was out visiting the Meatheads, so Gobber it was. “Hey, Gobber!” she called as she neared the forge.

There was some stern but muffled words at his apprentice before he appeared at the counter. “Oh, ‘ey Astrid. What brings you ‘ere on this fine day?”

“New guy floated in, wants to learn about dragons. Need a witness.”

Gobber eyed the man curiously, then adjusted his trousers around his enormous waist and walked around to the door. “Awright, ah got the time, not much ter do these days. Other than train mah brick of an apprentice.” A muffled shout came from inside. “Yeh you ‘eard me! Anyway, le’s get this over with.”

“Just need to check your back for brands, make sure you’re not Outcast,” Astrid explained to Aldin. “Turn around and lift your shirt.”

The man’s eyebrows went up in surprise – definitely foreign – but he shrugged and complied. His back was smooth and brand-free, there were a few scars but none that could have obscured the telltale mark.

“Eh, ‘e looks awright to me,” Gobber said mildly. “So wha’ brings yeh to the ass-end o’ the world? Surely not ter lose s’more limbs.” He gestured to the Aldin’s polished prosthetic with his own, currently sporting a pair of long tongs.

“Indeed, I’d rather learn how to _keep_ them. But I bear the dragons no ill will for taking the one. It’s in their nature, after all.”

Astrid scoffed. “It used to be. Sort of. There was a big dragon… it’s complicated. Most dragons are pretty friendly now, once they know you don’t mean them any harm.” She shot another glare at Stormfly. _“Most_ of the time.” Maybe that was the problem? Stormfly thought he was going to hurt her? No, that couldn’t be it, he’d been reaching up and from low, unsteady ground; no way he could have done anything aggressive even if he’d wanted to. She’d leave the ‘why’ to Fishlegs, he was much better at that sort of thing.

“Awright, ah’ll be ‘ere if ya need me,” Gobber said and waddled back into the forge. “Gah! What’re ya doin’ ya lightnin’ blind skiv weasel!? Ge’ tha’ ou’ o’ there!”

The sounds of Gobber berating his apprentice faded into the distance as they worked their way across the village, towards the no-clan huts. Olga was a true Hooligan, but the last of her clan and past the point of expanding it, so took in every wayward soul who needed a place to stay. Not everyone got along, but she ran a tight ship, claiming the task trivial compared to running a kitchen for hundreds of Vikings.

It was mid-morning, so she would be done with breakfast and have returned to the big common room to relax with her knitting. Something that came with running a tight ship was apparently being totally predictable, but that just meant everyone always knew where to find her.

Astrid knocked on the door to her house, and let herself in at the curt admission. The big woman sat in her usual chair by the fire, warming her feet on the hearth with a tightly knit garment sitting in her lap. Olga inspected them with a frown, her gaze lingering over Aldin as he followed Astrid in.

She hummed in amusement. “More ‘ands fer the deck? Where ya from lad?”

Aldin was peering at an old shield on the wall, hand clasping hook behind his back; the way he held himself suddenly reminded Astrid of some sort of bird of prey. “Nowhere, really,” he said casually. “Been a drifter all my life, sailing here and there. Never found a place that felt right.”

Olga made a low sound of amusement. “Not sure ‘bout the place, but Hooligans’re good people. We’ll see.” She set aside her knitting and heaved herself from her chair. “C’mon, le’s find yeh somewhere ter sleep.”

“Thanks Olga, holler if you need anything,” Astrid said as she exited the house, leaving them to it. Now, to have that _talk_ with Stormfly…

She looked around, but the dragon wasn’t on any of the rooftops. She whistled, but no Nadder descended from the sky. She loudly and angrily demanded her dragon come to her. No Stormfly.

Astrid threw her arms into the air and gave up, storming off to work off some of her frustration in the forest. That dragon had better not do anything rash in the meantime.

* * *

Flitting from den to den, watching, always watching. A vile predator had slithered into the nest, and a Spine-Tail was well suited to skewer it before it could make off with any hatchlings.

She watched as her Long-Paw led it into the nest and now into a den, blind to its greedy eyes and predatory gait. But it was its scent, the scent she remembered layered over a tortured Nightstriker fledgling, that had her spines rippling along her tail. It was a scent that brought pain and misery.

Powerful legs took her in a long loop around the big den, keeping distance by leaping and flapping across the surrounding dens. She moved silently, swiftly, focused in her hunt.

But, she realised, she was hunting a hunter. She needed to be cautious. She slowed her pace and kept low and hidden to complete her loop of the infested den, but found only the one entrance.

Hunters were tricky prey, she needed to keep moving, stay unpredictable. Her Long-Paw called summons, but she’d been the one to let it in… What was important was ridding the nest of this predator.

The sky-fire burned higher in the sky, but there could be no relaxing. She would pace this tainted den as long as she needed to… but doubt began to set in. So much time had passed since it had entered the den, she had not seen it leave but she could no longer be sure it was still there.

Her sense of danger expanded from this small den to encompass the entire nest. It could be anywhere, nowhere was safe. She became skittish about all the sounds around her, and her wary eyes looked every which way.

The Nightstriker fledglings were safe, not in this nest. She didn’t need to worry about them. But, her Long-Paw was little more than a fledgling herself, mature enough to mate but not yet adult. She could be in danger.

She jumped straight up and flapped her agile wings to catch the air, then flew swiftly towards the forest. Her Long-Paw liked to flick her heavy claw at trees when she was agitated, and she’d definitely sounded agitated. A quick scenting of the treeline confirmed this, and from there it was easy to follow the salty Long-Paw scents they sometimes scattered around. Though she was sure to remain wary, these familiar trees no longer felt safe either.

It was even easier to follow the sounds, when they could be heard. An aggressive call, an impact, then a splintering and wrenching sound, over and over. She felt proud of her Long-Paw, who pushed her Spine-Tail to do nonsensical things but pushed herself to do them more. Whatever it was accomplishing, she took her own share of the burden despite her small and frail body.

 _Bitter, angry,_ her Long-Paw said as she came into sight, then heaved her heavy claw into a distant tree, striking it precisely in the middle. She hissed her agreement in response, warily looking around for those greedy eyes. At least her Long-Paw seemed to have seen sense, even if she did not look wary herself.

 _Frustrated,_ her Long-Paw continued to chitter and growl. “You attack him why?” she asked suddenly.

Quills went up in confusion, rattling against each other. She didn’t know how to respond to that. “You attack him why?” the Long-Paw repeated.

Long-Paws thought in strange ways… maybe she wanted a more specific reason. “Danger for fledglings,” and a warning hiss for good measure.

Her Long-Paw leaned forward a little in a way that meant she didn’t understand. “Why?” she persisted.

“Hurt fledglings,” she hissed back angrily.

“Fledgl-ing what?”

Her Long-Paw didn’t know what a fledgling was? Krrah, she was still learning to talk… “You fledgling,” she said, gesturing with a wing.

“Fledgling?” the Long-Paw asked, gesturing to herself. “He not hurt me!”

A step backwards, flaring wings with a warning hiss. The big, heavy claw in the Long-Paw’s paw was angled to strike, and to strike at _her_. “Hurt fledglings, danger,” she repeated anyway; anyone else would find themselves regretting behaving like this, but she liked her Long-Paw, and wanted her approval…

Her Long-Paw made a frustrated noise and heaved the big claw through the air, striking a tree off to the side. This behaviour did not need to be put up with, however much respect had been earned. She took to the air with an angry squawk, hopping off a branch to break through the canopy, and flapped back to the nest. She would hunt this predator herself.

* * *

There were two tricks to getting either Vikings or children to like you. Alvin was dealing with Viking children, so they should be doubly effective.

The first was to quantify competition.

“Four and a half,” he announced. Really, it should be five-and-thirty, but the two rules with this trick were ‘bigger is better’ and ‘keep numbers below ten’. This _also_ applied to both children and Vikings.

“Ha!” the child shouted, tossing the axe into the pile. “You only got three!”

“Three is better than four!” the target of his boasting argued.

“No is not!”

“Four is bigger than three,” Alvin confirmed. Doubly effective, maybe, but twice as much work… “Have another go at it. Ready?” The kid scrambled to his feet. “Go!” He knew for a fact this kid was faster, so the one now sprawling over the scraggy grass to catch his breath had probably cheated and grabbed the axe from somewhere other than the designated storehouse. That was a perfectly acceptable tactic, of course; one with honesty had to be stronger to best one without it.

The Deadly Nadder he was keeping in the edge of his vision, crouched in the shadows between two buildings, took a slow step forward. Alvin gave it a sideways look and patted the nearest kid on the back with his hook. It stepped back again.

“Keep telling us how you got your ticking thing!” The voice was echoed by a chorus of agreements and pleas.

“Alright then,” Alvin said with a smile. The second trick to working with children or Vikings – or both – was to lie. Spin crazy impossible tales and the ones who believed looked up to you, and the ones who didn’t ignored you. Both were useful. “So I stormed through the big doors… and inside was a giant hall! Fit for a tribe of jötunn! I bravely sallied forth, looking for treasure… but instead… I found… a giant… snake!”

Half the kids gasped.

“You said it was an evil dragon!”

“Nuh uh, it was a hydra!”

“A giant snake,” Alvin repeated, ignoring the objections, then drew his sword – awkwardly, for he was sat down – and held it high. “’To Valhalla!’ I shouted, and charged the evil creature! _SNAP!_ With one bite, he ate everything except my hand…”

“You _died!?”_ one kid exclaimed incredulously.

“If he ate everything _but_ your hand, why is only your hand missing?” another, older kid asked smugly. “You should be missing…”

What an amusing thought process to watch. “I daresay if I were just a hand telling this story, it would be far less interesting.” The kids laughed. “No, what happened was I was _inside_ the snake, and my hand was outside… But would that stop a Viking?”

“No!”

“No indeed! I was down a hand, which was still holding my sword, and inside the beast smelled like Stoick’s bum-“ That was met with uproarious laughter, and he cast a wink at the amused but disapproving look of the big woman overseeing him. “-but I still had one hand, and a trusty dagger! So I started cutting my way out.

“Now, if you have ever tried cutting your way out of something, you’ll know it’s hard to know which way you’re going. By absolute luck, I cut all the way to its _heart._ Except… it didn’t have one!” He lifted the ticking thing, a thick gadget the size of his palm, by its chain. It spun slowly as it dangled from his hook. “Instead of a heart, it had a _ticking thing._ So I ripped it out, and cut my way free during its dying throes.”

“Was there any treasure?”

“Piles of it! But I kept the ticking thing as a memento… and to remind myself to never get eaten by a snake.” And speaking of the ticking thing… Six and a half minutes to run halfway down the village, grab an axe, and run back up with it. That wasn’t bad at all. “Three and a half,” he called over to the kid hauling himself up the hill. “Better, but not as good as four and a half.”

“Enough games,” their minder announced with a grateful nod at Alvin. “Put all those weapons away and come practice your runes.” Her words were met with a chorus of groans. “If you make me impatient you won’t be allowed to play with the ticking thing tomorrow.” _That_ got them moving.

Tomorrow… Alvin considered that as he eyed the shrinking pile of weapons as they were taken into the _conveniently_ close storehouse, and then glanced at the Nadder watching from the shadows. An insurance wrapped in a safety under the cover of a gesture. He would need to keep this up a few more days at least. Easy enough, this ‘Aldin’ persona had no real pitfalls to avoid; he nearly hadn’t even bothered to change his name, but there was no reason to raise suspicion from what Heather had told them of him.

It was a simple matter to move with the group of children and slip away amidst the maze of buildings. As long as he moved faster than it tracked him until he found some other form of safety, he would be fine.

* * *

The darkness had a tempting call about it this night, an energy to the air and a tingling in the ground. Dreamer only needed a glance to know Wanderer felt it too. They were both practically buzzing.

Of course, the Chief’s word held them to the barn; outside of it, they were to be escorted by both a Hooligan and a Meathead at all times. Working the scepticism and prejudice out of Mogadon was going quite well actually, but the growing paranoia he expressed every time he looked at them was unexpected, and Dreamer didn’t know how to handle it yet.

So he was being a good little dragon, locked in the barn where they’d been told to stay. The stifling, smelly, deafeningly quiet barn…

Dreamer snorted as he loped through the forest with Wanderer. _As if._ Sneaking out had been practically expected of him as Hiccup, as the alternative had been to spend literal days cooped up inside; enough to drive anyone mad, even him. Stoick really only had himself to blame.

And who wouldn’t want to be out? A sliver of sky-ice amongst the uncountable sky-sparks in the majestically clear sky, an invigorating chill to the caress of the wind, a hallow quality to the expansive silence of night. He also had to acknowledge the exhilaration of sneaking out, giving his stride a frantic glee.

Their gait was swift and silent, laughably easy across the flat terrain. They ran for what felt like half the night, but also somehow no time at all. The sky-sparks told him it was still early, however, when Wanderer bounded to a stop to nose at a trail. Boar, Dreamer recognised when he scented it himself.

Wanderer’s hopeful expression turned disappointed when Dreamer cast a wary glance back to the Meathead village, and they moved on; sneaking out was one thing, stealing wild game and leaving evidence was another. Besides, it wasn’t long before they crossed the trail of some rabbits, which were a _far_ more appealing hunt.

The soft ground under his paws, the way his pounding strides violated the tranquil silence, the crisp and clean air rushing through him, he tore after the rabbit in a giddy, frenzied chase. The quarry was faster, but just barely, and with the two of them it wasn’t long before he bore down on it with claws and teeth and a crackling snarl.

The critter squeaked as its life was abruptly cut short, and Dreamer rolled to a stop with it hanging limply in his teeth, fur tickling his mouth with his heavy panting. As Wanderer approached, he dropped it and rolled onto his back, revelling in the post-hunt simmer of achievement, and just how _soft_ the ground was here.

There was only one rabbit between them, which Wanderer picked up and prompted him to take his share. There was a _hopeful, pleading_ gaze in his expression… Dreamer wasn’t really hungry, so he just huffed and rolled in the grass. A happy warble preceded crunching and tearing.

Not hungry… And yet, he’d been desperate for that hunt… for the kill.

His mood instantly soured, and he rolled to his paws. What had been the point then, if not for food? Had he really just killed something for the _fun_ of it!?

He curled the base of his tail forward and sat back on it, then looked at his paws, really _looked_ at them. Rounded and robust, with four ‘digits’, hard and sharp. Five flat, pale pads on each, which felt very warm but very pleasant when held against the ground or breeze. The paws were connected to thick, sturdy wrists with short fins running down the backs.

He wasn’t about to fall into another rejection of his body, but… sometimes it caught him off-guard just how ruthlessly efficient it all was, right down to the tiny fins on his head, legs, and tail. Right down to the instincts that drove him to hunt, to _kill_ , to keep himself strong and independent.

A croon touched with concern sounded to his side, and Wanderer gave his shoulder a brief nuzzle. He nuzzled him back with a purr; this wasn’t anything for _either_ of them to worry about. The rabbit was food, it had a quick death and was eaten. Its life had provided experience, and its death, sustenance. It wasn’t a pointless kill.

He dropped forward and stretched, flexing his claws into the grass and arcing his back. _Mrrr,_ he wanted to find somewhere warm and cozy to snuggle into, ideally with a view of the sky, though anywhere but the barn would cause problems. Oh well.

Wanderer hummed mildly, then scurried his way up a tree and watched Dreamer from above. He recognised Dreamer wanted to return to their ‘den’ to sleep, and flitting between the branches as Dreamer trotted along below was just his way of burning off his extra energy on the way back.

But partway back, a rancid scent lingered in the air. It wasn’t so much on the wind as permeating it, a pungent smell that seemed to stick to the area. He immediately recognised it, and it pierced his heart, but he had to see.

A _concerned, uncertain_ croon sounded above, but Dreamer ignored his friend as he tracked the scent. Ignoring this would not make it go away.

It took time to find the source, but finally Dreamer was staring into the sightless eye sockets of a Nadder corpse, a few weeks dead if he had to guess. It had been dragged here, contributing to his difficulty finding it, to a small clearing through which he could clearly see the sky above. A warning, to any dragon who thought the clearing a good place to land.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. All its spines, quills, and hide had been removed, and not gently. The air was heavy with rot and death, and even the grass around the corpse seemed sick.

He doubted the poor thing had attacked first. Had the Meatheads surprised it, or had it been curious about them? It didn’t matter, really. Once he got them familiar with dragons, seeing them as more than just a nuisance, this would stop. Probably. Hopefully. He might need to lean on Johann to stop buying the pieces.

Yes… Create a demand for life, and cut off the demand for death, a simple and sturdy plan. But it hadn’t helped this poor creature.

He bayed sadly to the sky on the Nadder’s behalf, promising his efforts would stop this foolishness. Wanderer, now beside him, added his own mournful tone.

They had to leave it there, there wasn’t anything they could do for it. At least it would serve as a warning for now, exactly what the heartless Vikings wanted, though in Dreamer’s mind the message spoke far louder than intended; here there are monsters.

But it wasn’t their fault either… they didn’t know of any other way. Yet.

The village was quiet and deserted, save for the guards doing their rounds. Easy to avoid, as long as they kept their eyes hidden from the torches. They reached the barn without issue.

Though, looking at the door, Dreamer realised a bit of a problem. The latch, an iron bar loosely nailed to one door that hooked into a loop on the other, was on the outside. It took him a minute to puzzle out the solution, which was to simply do what he’d done to get out but in reverse. He opened the door and ushered Wanderer in, then held his tailfin against the edge to rest the latch on. Walking forward and pulling it with his tail, the door closed with his tailfin poking out the gap between them, allowing him to lower the latch into the loop.

Wanderer purred from a very inviting niche in the big pile of hay that took up one corner of the barn, and Dreamer trotted over to nestle himself up against his friend. A paw lifted to pull him in, and the arrangement quickly devolved into a tangle of limbs. He had paws around his neck, lightly kneading and scratching his shoulders to his contented groans, and he was wrapped in wings while one sort of covered Wanderer.

Several rounds of fidgeting and kneading later, Dreamer’s tired body was more interested in the ridiculously comfortable warmth than the pointless fussing of his mind. He would fix things; it was only a matter of time.

* * *

“Astrid, wha’s go’ into yer Nadder, lass?”

The familiar voice cut through Astrid’s focus as the blacksmith waddled towards her, and she cast another glance around herself before shaking her head. “Wish I knew. I’ve barely seen her in days.”

“Yeh mean apart from ‘er chargin’ through the village half the day?”

“Maybe she’s sick or something… I’m pretty close to sending the twins to get Fishlegs, I’m really worried.”

Gobber scratched his enormous stubbly chin and tucked his hook under his elbow. “Yeh gotta be desperate ter consider _tha’._ Can yeh nae talk to ‘er? Though’ tha’ was somethin’ yeh could do.”

Astrid grimaced. “A little. Talking about the now is easy, ‘do this’, ‘do you want that’, ‘I’m hungry’. Whatever this is, it’s more complicated, and… Fishlegs seems to have taken his books with him.”

“After ‘e was told not to,” Gobber muttered in a tone that said he would have some stern words for when the group returned. Fishlegs of course didn’t really need his notes, and taking them was a needless risk; it was strange because he’d agreed with all that, but there wasn’t another explanation. He must have changed his mind at the last moment or something.

“Yeah. And his shorthand is nonsense, so I can’t even read his notes. Just…” She growled in frustration. “This had to happen _now,_ of course. Every time something happens, there’s something to stop us from dealing with it properly.”

“No’ really. Remember when ‘Ookfang ‘ad tha’ busted tooth? We jus’ asked ‘im wha’ was wrong an’ ‘e told us. Can yeh imagine if we could no understand ‘im? We might’a assumed ‘e’d gone mad or somethin’. Might’a taken all day ter work i’ ou’, if we did a’ all. Yeh just don’ remember the easy stuff.

“Stop telling me things I don’t want to hear,” Astrid shot at him irritably, but with a wry smile.

“Awright then, ‘ow abou’ tha’ ah found yer dragon?”

“Wha-?”

Stormfly barrelled past them, a blur of colour that quickly rounded a building and disappeared from sight. Gobber wobbled and staggered, she hadn’t actually touched him but having a dragon practically charge you would test anyone’s reflexes.

“Stormfly!” Astrid called out in vain, running after her. Since their little spat in the forest the dragon had ignored her; she now regretted how she’d acted, though Stormfly had been no better really. They needed to make up and go for a flight.

If only Stormfly would slow down long enough to make up with!

* * *

_Thump thump thump thump_ , paws beat the ground to accelerate the Spine-Tail they were attached to through the nest. _Kraah_ , the things Long-Paws wore on their paws made it very difficult to track them most of the time, they all only smelled of whatever they’d walked in. They were unique enough to track once the scent was found, but the scent changed frequently so needed to be re-acquired regularly. Sometimes they spread a salty smell where they went, but only sometimes.

She was weary, but she couldn’t rest. There was danger in the nest, she had to eliminate it, and she set herself to that goal as long as she could see; most nights were too dark, but this one was clear and bright.

But this predator was like a slippery little furred thing that scurried around her claws before she could close them on it. Waiting and watching hadn’t worked, it was small and fast and every time she caught up to it there were other Long-Paws who would be badly hurt in a confrontation; it would do no good to burn the nest she was trying to protect.

So now she raced up and down the small-land, hoping to stumble on the predator or spook it out of hiding; it did not belong here and it knew it.

She spotted a form skulking in shadows a little way up the nest and veered towards it, running swiftly and low to the ground; she had flushed it out. It spotted her and ran as well, but with its tiny legs and lack of tail, it had no hope. It would not escape now, not at night with a lack of Long-Paw fledglings to protect itself with.

It rounded on one of the dens and disappeared into it, but that den would not save it. That den was small and squat, the type that smelled of fish and did not have any Long-Paws in it at night. It would offer no protection. She let out a cry of _hunting, satisfaction._

A gout of fire burned through the thin trees that covered the entrance to the den, and what remained stood little chance against her horned head. She wanted to rip this predator apart for all the hassle it had caused her, but her wings caught on the wall of the den, which was much sturdier and did not give way to her shoving.

The fire spread rapidly from the burning splinters, and by the suddenly bright light she saw her quarry at the other end of the den. Alone and trapped. Though it was still moving, planting a paw on a raised surface and swinging its hindlegs up to kick at the wall of the den… The walls should be strong against a Long-Paw, but a small part of this one gave way with practically none of the expected splintering sound – and the Long-Paw continued on through it!

A thick torrent of cleansing fire streaked across the den and splashed off the edges of the hole, but the yelp of pain was not encouraging. Dead things did not yelp. She screeched in frustration and wrenched herself from the burning den, then leapt up on top of it and hopped to the other side. There was no sign of her quarry. She hopped down with a roar and followed the trail, but it quickly passed through a narrow space she could not follow through. The trail did not appear from the other side, though the gap was empty.

 _Kraah!_ Every time her claws closed around it, it found a way to scurry away! She wouldn’t even just be able to track it through the empty nest, as it was no longer empty, Long-Paws were shouting and starting to run around, but she ignored them.

That was a mistake. A weighty blow to the side of her head staggered her, and a heavy force crashing into her side sent her to the ground despite her flaring wings. Her mouth was clamped shut and her wings, legs and tail were all quickly pinned to the ground. Unnecessary, as she had little strength to struggle against so many, and would not kill these Long-Paws for whatever they were doing; they were not trying to kill her, their flat claws were still by their sides.

The ground wouldn’t stay still below her, and the side of her head throbbed dully, but she didn’t fight. Not even when something wrapped around her wings, holding them firmly to her sides. Especially not when her Long-Paw approached her, wet eyes full of _concern_ and _disappointment._

* * *

It had taken nearly a week, but Fishlegs had _finally_ convinced the Meatheads to let some kids play with the Furies – under _very_ strict supervision, of course, that came in the form of three Meathead warriors. At least they didn’t even look twice at Meatlug, dozing off to the side and perfectly content to laze around all day. Regardless, things started off very well.

One of the earlier kids stuck in his mind though. Fishlegs had introduced him to Hiccup and they chased each other for a little while before Hiccup allowed the boy to pet him. He’d disappeared without Fishlegs thinking anything further of him, but returned after Toothy had been rotated in and Hiccup was taking his turn sunning on his back in the grass.

“Umm… Mister dragon person?” the somewhat weedy boy asked hesitantly, flanked by a pair of curious friends who had also seen Hiccup.

“If you want to see him again we’ll see if we have time later,” Fishlegs said with a smile. Depended how long the Furies wanted to play for, he supposed.

“Ummm okay, sure, but… Are you sure he’s a boy? Because…” He trailed off and pointed at Hiccup, still splayed out and showing a complete lack of modesty… and a complete lack of any masculine weaponry.

Fishlegs laughed, a little nervously given the subject – but right before he could start explaining, he reassessed his assumption and closed his mouth, staring into the distance with his brow furrowed.

… _Was_ he sure? Their proportions matched what he knew of Toothless, and Fishlegs had made use of plenty of opportunities to examine both Fury fledglings, but without a female to compare to – or getting _really_ personal – he couldn’t be absolutely certain. Furies were different to other dragons in many ways, there might not even _be_ any outward differences.

Toothless wouldn’t… have turned Hiccup into a _girl_ dragon, would he? That line of thought just did not bear thinking through… but he _was_ smaller, limber…

“Yes, I’m sure,” he asserted with a confidence he wished he felt. “Their, um, boy bits just, uh, hide away…”

“See, I told you they was like dogs,” one of the trio said as they turned to leave, pushing each other playfully.

The kids continued to roll through, all having a great time, but Fishlegs couldn’t put the thought from his head. Hiccup’s smaller stature was due to several weeks of malnutrition, but he’d _always_ been smaller, and he’d said they _weren’t_ going looking for female dragons… Dragonese used a single term to reference someone, not ‘he’ or ‘she’, and he couldn’t remember Hiccup ever _saying_ he was male… Actually, what had made Hiccup sure Toothless was male in the first place? Fishlegs highly suspected his assumption was layered on another. Small doubts burrowed their way into his mind.

The question was… would it haunt him more to not know for sure, or to trample his pride and ask?

Actually, if he asked, there was a possibility he’d be told contrary to his assumption, and at best he’d probably be laughed at. He could live with a few doubts, and Hiccup was embracing his new life whichever way that went. It wasn’t Fishlegs’ business.

Aside from his little crisis, it had been a roaring success, kids lined up all almost all afternoon to get some careful guidance on how to pet and play with a dragon. In fact, Fishlegs was almost completely certain that they’d been through every kid and were now working through them a second time, because the faces were starting to look familiar. Or maybe he just needed a break.

Actually, he probably really did need a break, it was becoming a lot harder to remain focused. He stared at Hiccup vacantly, almost as vacant as the boy he was playing with; a young kid with light freckling and sandy blonde hair. He was having fun, but Hiccup was getting pretty bored, so was excited when Toothy coasted back to the ground with a bark to announce his presence; mainly for the benefit of the three drowsy but somewhat skittish warriors overseeing things.

They had a brief conversation, something about good winds and probably that they would swap again soon, when the boy reached forward. The action stood out to Fishlegs, which was strange, Hiccup and Toothy happily played with grabby infants all the time on Berk. It was probably to do with the realisation that Hiccup had his tail tucked to his side, and always had for a while. Toothy was much more relaxed with his.

Still, he didn’t see why it would be a problem, and therefore nearly jumped out of his skin when the kid grabbed Hiccup’s tail, and Hiccup spun with a shrill growl and then skittered backwards, low to the ground with his eyes wide and narrowed.

The warriors suddenly standing behind him had him spin again and quickly back up towards Fishlegs, and Toothy was quickly by his side and ready for a fight; no longer a little fledgling, he looked _very_ intimidating.

“Woah, woah, everyone calm down!” Fishlegs said loudly, stepping in front of the Furies and moving to check over the kid, who looked to be in shock. “If you want to do something,” he said to the burly men, “keep the other kids back.” They were all edging closer, murmuring loudly and trying to get a better look at what was going on.

The warriors and the Furies circled around each other until the kids were behind a wall of muscle, though they looked more to be trying to protect the kids than hold them back. Whatever; the result was the same.

Fishlegs spent the time inspecting the kid in the middle of it all, finding gashes down the back of his hand; he’d not even seen Hiccup strike, but the pattern was irrefutable. “Only some cuts,” he explained, “he’ll be fine. Just take him to your healer.”

He received three stony expressions, but then one stepped forward took the boy by his arm. “Ah’ll get the Chief,” he said quietly to the other two, hefting the kid and carrying him away as the exclamations of pain began.

 _Great,_ there went this little venture. Still, it _was_ pretty stupid to just grab a dragon’s tail, and they _had_ been cautioned against it. Fishlegs groaned frustratedly, he should have done an intelligence and sense test instead of just taking a minimum age. Everything was so obvious _after_ it all fell apart.

But come on, this was _Hiccup!_

Well, Mogadon would want answers, and he should probably have them. He took a deep breath and approached Hiccup, doing his best to ignore Toothy’s wary gaze, and sat down; Hiccup could stare eye-to-eye from all fours now, but currently he was hunched low to the ground.

“You okay?” he asked gently, quelling his agitation with logic – this was Hiccup’s project, he wouldn’t mess it up over something trivial. He was glancing around with those frighteningly narrow eyes, but then blinked and looked at him as his pupils began to dilate. “What happened?”

Hiccup lowered his eyes to the ground and shrank back a little further. _“Not know,”_ he said slowly. _“I felt… I…”_ He whined piteously. _“I… felt attacked. I know it not attack… I just…”_

He pawed at the ground while Fishlegs ran through possibilities and scenarios. And when he factored in when it all started…

“Berserk,” he whispered, and Hiccup flinched.

They both flinched when a loud voice boomed over the whispers of the kids. “Wha’s gone on ‘ere?” Mogadon asked.

“Ahh, err, s-sorry sir,” Fishlegs stammered. “Just a bit too much curiosity… and an… overreaction.”

“An’ wha’ kind o’ overreaction sends a kid ter the ‘ealer?” Mogadon demanded, leaning on his peg leg and fingering his sword.

“The ‘what happens if I grab this dragon’s tail while he’s not looking’ kind,” Fishlegs shot back before he could stop himself, then clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t know when this had started, but he really wished it would stop.

Mogadon opened his mouth, still the picture of distrust and anger, but then closed it again with a brief chuckle. “Aye, that do seem a stupid thing ter do,” he admitted. “Bu’ you said you ‘ad them under control.”

Fishlegs held in a groan. “We don’t _control_ them. Just… Argh, if I walked up behind Thuggory and pulled his hair, what sort of injuries could I expect to walk away with?”

“Yeh’d be lucky ter walk away a’ all,” Mogadon said quickly, then grimaced. “Ah see where yer goin’ with this.”

“Right.” But he still wasn’t convinced. Fishlegs winced, realising he needed a demonstration. So, if Hiccup was like that with his tail… then… he just hoped this wouldn’t hurt too much…

His hand edged along the ground, striking a delicate balance of haste. The moment his finger brushed against Toothy’s paw, said paw was suddenly pressing claws into his arm with a growl. “S-See?” he squeaked out. “I’m not c-controlling him…”

“Tha’ proves nothin’.”

Fishlegs _did_ groan then, he didn’t want to explain the whole trauma thing… But maybe he didn’t have to… “Can he see your paws?” he quietly asked Toothy.

Toothy growled at him again, but Hiccup nudged him and they stared at each other for a moment. Toothy huffed, then nodded slowly. _“Only look,”_ he growled.

“Thanks. It’ll help, I promise.” Toothy huffed again, then lifted himself onto his hindlegs, and Fishlegs beckoned to Mogadon. Given the Chief’s hand firmly grasped the handle of his sword, he stopped him just outside of melee range, at which point Toothy fixed them both with a level look and held up his front paws, displaying the pale scars crossing over the pads.

“Wha’ am ah lookin’ at ‘here?” It was a good thing there was still light actually, though there would not be for much longer.

Hiccup answered the question by standing up, awkwardly walking over, and holding up a paw as well, his dark pink pads unblemished. Mogadon turned back to Toothy with an unreadable expression. “Given wha’ you been sayin’, ah no think you did tha’,” he said.

“No! We…” How much to say, what to explain? “We rescued him from some Outcasts when he was younger,” Fishlegs hedged, thinking fast and watching Hiccup in case it was too much. “They weren’t being gentle.”

Mogadon just stared at him, running his fingers through his curly mess of a beard.

“Hiccup was similarly rescued,” Fishlegs continued warily. “His tail was injured, but we–“

He was interrupted by a loud screech echoing over the village from somewhere outside it.

* * *

Dreamer hissed at the unfamiliar Nadder call, echoing Wanderer. “Not ours,” he said quickly to Fishlegs, dropping back to his paws and scanning the evening sky. The sound seemed to have been purely for volume, he couldn’t read _anything_ into it, which had him worried.

Fishlegs barely had time to stumble over an explanation to Mogadon before a figure became visible, a Nadder flapping hard and headed for the village. What was it _doing?_ Wild dragons avoided Viking settlements without the influence of the queen…

Apparently not this one. It swooped down, and Dreamer barked in alarm as he saw and heard it breathe a torrent of fire just before he lost sight of it behind the buildings. He remained frozen in place by the shouts and screams, startlingly clear despite the distance and obstructions.

Mogadon began shouting orders, but Dreamer wasn’t listening, and it didn’t matter. He had to work out what was going on, and couldn’t think of a possibility that was even remotely plausible.

The Meathead Chief suddenly went quiet, then shouted something at Fishlegs. _“-rescind the condition tha’ the Furies ‘ave fire, now take tha’ thing ou’!”_ Fishlegs started responding in a panic, but it was irrelevant. The Nadder was back in sight, and it was just swooping down on random buildings and setting them ablaze, and if the Meatheads took it down…

“We need stop it!” Dreamer implored Wanderer, who was watching the Nadder with narrowed eyes.

Those green orbs turned on him, full of _concern,_ but then became set with _determination._ “Stay,” Wanderer ordered, and leapt into the air.

Dreamer leapt up after him, but just cruised above the village. Spitelout was already chasing it on Kingstail, and it was not paying him any attention, and he was fairly certain he could outfly it if necessary; he had a better chance up here than from the ground, anyway.

Wanderer kept going up, quickly shrinking into the sky. His descent was announced by the telltale whistle, building into a chilling screech that painted the ground in vague outlines, even where Dreamer wasn’t looking. Shouts could be heard from below as the wail grew in volume and pitch, the first time Meathead Island had heard such a sound since that last raid on Berk.

The growing form of Wanderer hurtled towards the ground, pulling up sharply and shooting past the Nadder so fast it squawked in alarm and pulled out of the dive it was in. Wanderer banked around so smoothly and tightly it looked like he was a weight on a rope, making another strafing run on the Nadder. Again and again he shot past it, far out of reach before it could turn to slash, snap and flame at him. Frustrated, it suddenly lunged for Kingstail and several quills sprouted in both Nadders’ sides, but Kingstail was the only one to go down.

Wanderer shot up into the air while it was distracted, arcing over and down on top of it. He flipped at the last moment, falling tail-first past it, then righted himself and screeched back into the sky. By the way the Nadder stumbled in the air, he must have slashed its wing.

Dreamer soared over as the Nadder spiralled down, screeching and roaring madly as it went, and alighted on a nearby roof as it staggered to a halt on the ground in an empty clearing. It didn’t even have time to find its balance before Wanderer slammed into it, knocking it to the ground. He landed on its wing and grappled the other, using them to pin it to its side.

It kicked, bucked and snapped its teeth, but Wanderer held it down, though he seemed unable to do anything else. Dreamer swooped down and landed in front of it, barking to get its attention, but only succeeded in getting it to snap at him instead. He barked again, and again, then _roared_ at it, to no effect.

“Dreamer!” Wanderer shouted as he struggled to hold it down, deflecting spines with his wings and holding himself away from its teeth and talons. “Kill!”

No… That couldn’t be the solution! He couldn’t just kill it, not like this! He roared at it again, but it was as if it didn’t even see him.

A loud _crack_ echoed off the nearby buildings, Dreamer cringing violently at the sound of Wanderer breaking its wing. _“Dreamer!”_ he implored desperately.

Dreamer whimpered. He couldn’t, just couldn’t kill it, couldn’t even approach it as it snarled and snapped at him, apparently oblivious to being grounded. He was frozen, his mind was frozen, and everything was happening in a sort of hazy slow motion. He could only watch it thrash and buck.

Could only watch it buck, catching Wanderer’s side, then slap him with its tail and throw him off.

His paws moved of their own accord, propelling him forward to slash at its eyes. It blindly threw its head back, screeching and snapping its teeth, but too slow. There was no analysis of the situation, no thinking at all, he simply did the only thing he could to immobilise it – sink his teeth into its exposed throat, and tear it out.

All sound abruptly ceased, leaving a horrible ringing in Dreamer’s ears and head. Reality crashed back in. He gagged on the blood in his mouth, lamenting his inability to spit and almost making himself sick, but could only try to drool it out onto the trodden dirt.

 _Wanderer._ He turned to his friend, staggered to the side, then strode forward, forcing his distant and hollow body to move forward. Wanderer was pulling himself to his paws, using his front right paw gingerly, but it didn’t seem to be broken and he was holding his wings well. Dreamer whimpered in relief.

They staggered and limped up to each other and bumped heads, both panting heavily and purring _relief_. Dreamer allowed Wanderer to clean the blood off his face, then hooked a paw behind Wanderer’s injured leg and gently lifted it to inspect it. No Nightstriker blood, and no breaks. “How?” he asked.

“Landed on it,” Wanderer grumbled, pulling it back. “It not bad hurt.” He touched his nose to Dreamer’s head and sighed. “I _could_ have bad hurts…”

“I not could fight,” Dreamer whined sullenly, quite aware of just how badly that could have gone. He ignored the crowd growing around them, just as he was ignoring the Nadder corpse bleeding into the ground; it wasn’t difficult with the fuzziness that still gripped his mind, and this was all that mattered right now.

“You _did_ fight,” Wanderer said with an edge of frustration. “But only after-…“

Dreamer pulled his head back to find Wanderer staring at him with his mouth open. “…I could have bad hurts…” he repeated slowly, apparently to himself.

 _“Ya did i’!”_ The booming voice of Chief Mogadon cut through the murmur of the gathering crowd, striding into the clearing – it appeared to be a plaza of some sort – with Fishlegs in tow, who hurried forward and insisted on inspecting Wanderer’s leg. _“Ah’m sold. When can yeh get us our own dragons?”_

Perhaps it was just the shock lifting the blindfold his vision had over him, but he couldn’t help noticing the way that was phrased, hear the _desire_ and _greed_ in Mogadon’s voice, see it in how he eyed the dead Nadder… and realise what a _stupid_ idea it was to try to give _dragons_ to _Vikings_. He wasn’t interested in making peace with dragons – he wanted to _weaponise_ them.

Fishlegs, oblivious to this, beamed and began talking, but Dreamer cut him off with a _pleading_ bark. _“Uh, we’ll talk later,”_ he promised instead, casting Dreamer a confused look before returning to Wanderer’s leg.

Dreamer groaned and slumped wearily, looking forward to just collapsing somewhere dark and quiet. He didn’t even care where at this point, as long as it was with his friend.

 _“…Yeh’ll need ter come with me, boy,”_ Mogadon growled suddenly, his voice dark and tense. Dreamer snapped his head up to find the Chief staring at him, his one eye now glaring _suspicion, anger, betrayal,_ and his hand on his sword _._ How could things have possibly gone even worse? _“Yer dragons too.”_

What!? What was going on here!? Dreamer turned his dazed attention to the crowd, catching snippets here and there but very quickly picking up the tense, uneasy attitude.

 _“Now, of all-“ “-couldn’t control-“ “-happen to be here when-“_ _“-no raids in-“_ _“-backfired-“_

He whined as he put it all together. Not a single raid in years, and then a dragon attacks the village within a week of Hooligan paws landing on the island? What were the odds? But this definitely wasn’t their doing!

And all the eyes on him, the way they stared… The way Mogadon had asked them to go with him… Dreamer foresaw being tossed into the barn – if he was _lucky_ – to be locked inside, trapped, _caged,_ and a flood of panic washed through him. “You can fly?” he asked Wanderer tensely.

His friend froze, staring at a confused Fishlegs, but subtly flared the tips of his wings. That was all the answer Dreamer needed. He spun and leapt into the air, pumping it hard, and the two Nightstrikers flew from the village as fast as their wings would carry them.


	26. Leverage

Astrid woke to the pitter-patter of rain on the stone of the training ring, feeling lethargic and unrested. The night had been cold in Stormfly’s stable, even leaning against the dragon, as her wings were still tied to her sides and therefore offered no shelter or warmth. The best Stormfly had been able to do was curl her neck around her.

At least she’d had the sense of mind to grab a long, thick coat and some gloves while her dragon was being trundled to the ring. Stifling though it was, she adjusted it around herself and tucked her legs in a little closer, but the movement roused Stormfly and some of her warm backrest pulled away so that they could look eye to eye.

She held out a hand, wishing she knew what her dragon was thinking. Stormfly touched her snout to it with a gentle warble, then lowered her head to the ground again. Astrid knew there was no point pressing questions herself, she simply didn’t know enough Dragonese to go into that sort of detail. For that, she needed Fishlegs.

Although, now that Stormfly had settled, she and Tuffnut might be able to work it out between them, he seemed to magically know what they were thinking… but he would be on his way to get Fishlegs by now. No matter, they would be back early afternoon at the latest.

Astrid just couldn’t believe that this was some sort of dragon madness… Here, now, Stormfly was perfectly calm and placid. Something in the village was riling her somehow.

But none of this added up! The incident with Aldin on the boat had been the first sign, but then he apparently hadn’t seen her since. Her behaviour had been erratic for the days after that, and then she’d suddenly burned down a storehouse, which just happened to have almost every weapon in the village in it for some reason.

And that didn’t make sense either! Why were the weapons all in one place to start with, and then what had caused Stormfly to burn it all? She didn’t even hang around; she had been skulking around a few houses away before she’d been restrained.

Astrid got to her feet and stretched. There was nothing to do but await more information, which she wouldn’t get here. She scowled at the rain outside, they were barely into spring so it would be freezing cold, but this early in the morning the clouds would not be too high up. “Do you… want to go for a flight?” she asked.

Stormfly perked a little at that, shuffling from her side into a crouch. “Stay here a moment,” she said gently, then pulled her hood up and jogged out into the wet to retrieve the saddle from the storeroom set into the cliff above the ring. It wasn’t nearly as long as her usual morning routine, but it was enough to get her heart beating and work out most of the stiffness. Even more so when she jogged back, awkwardly holding the saddle above her head to better shield herself from the rain.

She didn’t honestly think Stormfly would bolt the moment her wings were free, but Astrid was still wary as she undid the knots; the Nadder _had_ been unpredictable lately. It proved unfounded, she pulled off the ropes, saddled her and mounted up without issue.

Leaning back to pull Stormfly into a steep climb, she pulled her hood down and shielded her face from the rain as they ascended through the dreary sky, through the dense clouds that she could breathe but felt heavy in her chest, and finally out into the sky above.

The air was still bitterly cold, but her heavy coat had kept most of the wet out and only her face was exposed. She squinted into the sudden light, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the brilliant blue above, and took a long, deep breath. Breaking through the clouds was always an incredible experience, and she stretched to bask in it. It took her a moment to notice, with a start, that below them was a dark sea of grey as far as she could see. That was foreboding.

But up here… it was like nothing else mattered. She leaned back in the saddle and held her head high into the breeze as Stormfly flew peacefully slow and level. This morning was not a day for thrills and training, it was simply for enjoying each other’s company.

The dark clouds beneath felt fitting. Descending through them would throw her world into uncertainty again, where she didn’t know her dragon, where the village was much less defensible. She didn’t have to think about that up here, in the bright and clear sky. There was just her and Stormfly.

The tranquillity was eventually broken by Astrid’s stomach complaining noisily to her. Stormfly even heard it, apparently, as she turned her head and squawked at her rider. “Yeah you’re probably right, let’s go find breakfast.”

She noted with a start that the clouds below weren’t dark and ominous anymore, and it took her a moment to realise it was just that the sun had been below them before and was now above them. She hadn’t flown like this so early before, so it wasn’t something she’d noticed.

Ominous or no, they were still wet, but the rain seemed to have eased somewhat and was now only a light misting.

As they descended into the darkness below, it quickly became apparent they’d drifted quite far from Berk, having no points of reference in the open sky above. There was no concern though, Stormfly angled them to a distant island without even seeming to think about it and before long the mountain was looming above them.

Astrid guided them down to a larger sea stack just off the coast and dismounted, then removed the saddle. It was a show of trust… sort of. She trusted Stormfly not to fly off and leave her there, but not to return to her if they’d set down in the village. Gods, when did she not trust Stormfly implicitly in everything…

She watched the Nadder glide above the water for a while, then flap for a bit of height and dive straight down into it, emerging moments later and labouring back into the air to repeat the process.

Hunger sated but dripping wet, she returned to Astrid, who saddled her up again, and they headed back towards the village. As it came into view, Astrid pulled her towards the training ring, and they set down inside it. “Sorry girl, I think you need to stay out of the village for a little while… just until we work this out.”

Stormfly squawked, examining Astrid, then gave her a heavy nuzzle. “I know, it won’t be long. I mean it though. Stay here.”

The look she got back startled her a little, like Stormfly was _begging_ her to be careful. Since when were dragons so… expressive? But then Stormfly nudged her shoulder with her snout, and plodded into her stable to begin preening herself.

It wouldn’t be for very long… just until Fishlegs got back. By boat it was half the journey to the nest, so she just had to distract herself with something and he’d be back before she knew it. All this would be sorted out soon.

Her stomach complained again on the jog back to the village, reminding her again that she hadn’t yet eaten. They should still be serving breakfast; she’d be stuck with whatever was left but that was far from registering on her list of problems right now.

After warming some stale bread over the fire and downing it with some cold eggs, cheese and fruit preserve, she headed out again to look for Stoick. He’d been out late last night, probably somewhere on the island as they hadn’t been able to find him, but once again he didn’t appear to be home; he must have come and gone already.

Gobber would have caught him though. She strode down the village towards the blacksmith, but instead found him standing in front of the husk of a storehouse, apparently oblivious to the cold rain. “You spoken to Stoick yet?” she asked him as she approached.

“Eh? No, no’ ye’. 'E was no in his house this mornin’.”

“He wasn’t?” She groaned; the Chief overdoing things was hardly unusual, but it meant he would be grouchy, and this situation was bad enough already.

“Aye. An’ then there’s this.” He gestured to what was left of the building.

“I’m sure she didn’t mean to, and-“

Gobber cut her off with a wave of his hand, then waddled into the building. Astrid followed. “Look a’ these weapons,” he said, picking the blackened axe head off the ground and handing it to her.

"The fact there's so many here at all?"

"Well, yeh, tha' too, bu' actually look a' i'."

She frowned at him and inspected the weapon, noting the warped edge and rippled surface. "It's a bit melted?"

"Aye. A _bi'_ melted. They _all_ are."

"So…?" What was he getting at with all this?

Gobber sighed and picked up another. "Nadder fire would do more than a little meltin', bu' jus' bein' in a burnin' buildin' would'n' do anythin'. An' i's too even. I's like they were burned by a Nigh'mare, no' a Nadder."

"But Hookfang isn't even-" She nearly dropped the lump of metal in her hands at the implication. _"Sabotage!?_ But who…"

Gobber interrupted her thoughts by beckoning her to the back, walking through where the rear wall used to be. "An' then there's this… Ah don' know wha' ter make of i'."

Astrid followed him to find him staring down at some short planks lying in the scraggly grass, the sides caked in mud… Like what was used to seal a storehouse… "Was this… cut from the wall?" She picked one up, finding the ends frayed and raw. How could anyone cut into a solid wall?

"Looks like. Don' ge' me wrong, I ain' _lookin'_ ter prove yer Nadder innocent, bu' she's lookin' a lo' less guilty righ' now." He absently squeezed some of the water out of his moustache. "Hel if ah know wha' i' means though."

Everything started with Aldin… Stormfly wasn't crazy, she was _hunting_ something dangerous… Sabotage… "I think I know who we need to speak to…"

* * *

Alvin had never been so grateful for freezing cold rain. He didn't even care that he was soaked, it was just so good for numbing the excruciating pain.

This was the true power of the Kings Things. The ticking thing made one a master of time, being able to measure it precisely. One more of its short seconds and he would be laughing. But no, he had been a moment too slow, and that moment had practically melted his scalp and some of his back, leaving it a raw and blistered mess. He wouldn't be charming his way into any houses for a long time, if ever. _Curse_ that despicable dragon! When he took over, he would be sure to give it a suitably slow and excruciating death.

But that would have to wait. He finally reached the secluded inlet, having needed some of the night to recover, and kicked awake the Nameless lounging by the boat. "Get up! Everything went to plan, so get going."

The Nameless startled to his feet, then did a double-take at Alvin. "Boss…?"

"Alright, maybe not _everything_ went to plan. But a dragon went mad and burned all their weapons. And remember where you're going _first_."

"Meathead Island," he confirmed somewhat vaguely. "And then…"

Alvin clapped his ear with his hook, suppressing the flare of pain from the stump. "And then you spread the rumours. What happened here, and whatever happened with my Nadder there. Go to all the northern tribes, the usual route."

The ragged man scrambled to obey, climbing into the boat, climbing back out to push it off, then climbing back in. Incompetent fool. Alvin shook his head-

And immediately froze, groaning in pain as it pulled on the burns. Maybe be would skin it alive, one palm of scaly hide per day…

At least he was now rid of his own remaining Nadder, probably. They were theoretically valuable and powerful tools, broken dragons, but difficult to obtain, time consuming to break and train, and costly to keep fed. That male in particular had taken a very aggressive streak that made it difficult to control, though that had probably served well in the end.

Alvin set out again through the forest, grimacing every time a fat droplet fell from the trees onto his head but striding onward. The sooner he got there, the sooner he wouldn't have to put up with it.

His second destination was a camp in a secluded cave, one of many he knew of; Berk was conveniently riddled with them. Given the rain, there would probably be a fire too, which would be nice. Despite the welcome numbing effect, the cold was starting to get a bit overbearing. 

The five Outcasts inside did a double take at him as well, and he had to resist rubbing his head in disappointment; he'd sent six. "The other?" he asked dispassionately.

"Snapped 'is neck," Savage said, dramatically acting it out on himself. "With one 'and."

"I _told_ you to be careful-"

"An' we was!" Savage griped. "Had 'im trussed up an' all afore 'e was even awake. Fair done snapped the ropes. You can sees we takin' no chances now. I tell ya, rather I'd take the dragon again, even if it _is_ growed up."

"Hardly a surprise," Alvin said mildly, meeting the cold and stony eyes of the seventh person in the shallow cave, gagged and wrapped in more ropes than he cared to count. "Considering the rumours about you, we should have expected no less, Chief 'Stoick the Vast'."

* * *

Okay… Dreamer was _fairly_ certain he knew where they were keeping Fishlegs, Spitelout, and Snotlout. At least, he assumed that’s why Mogadon would visit the same guarded building three times in the same morning.

And he already knew where the other dragons were; that had been easy, they’d instantly responded to a roar with their own, which his sensitive ears could have picked up from the other side of the island. Well, the living dragons, anyway, the Nadder he had killed last night had been… the best way to describe it was ‘taken apart’. He shuddered at the memory and shoved it back to a corner of his mind.

Knowing where everyone was didn’t do him much good at this point. They were free to fly above the village as much as they wanted, but actually going down there was a whole other story, at least during the light. He expected to need to go back to get Stoick, but while he could make it back there in the time it took Snotlout to find his helmet in the morning, Stoick would need to come by boat, so it would be a few days regardless. He might as well wait until night and see what Fishlegs had to say about it.

He drifted over to Wanderer and pointed at the building with his snout, and his friend chuffed in confirmation. “We maybe talk with Fishlegs this night. Then… I not know. We do something…”

Wanderer’s eyes went back to the barn containing the dragons. Pretty stupid, really, to house dragons in a wooden structure, but they hadn’t burned it down yet. He gave it another day before Hookfang set fire to himself in boredom, possibly earlier if they weren’t being fed. That was the other reason they hadn’t left yet.

But they couldn’t just free the dragons either… Dreamer was fairly certain they would go straight for their riders, or just cause panic in general. No, he needed to be smart about this…

He sighed and looked to the horizon. The clouds above them were heavy but scattered, thoughtfully holding back their water, but he could see denser clouds in the distance and the smudging below it that indicated rain. It didn’t seem to be getting any closer at least.

By periodically keeping an eye on the rains like this, he was thankfully aware of a distant shape well before it reached the village, and winged out over the sea to check out what it was. He barked in surprise as he eventually recognised the strange shape as being the twins on their Zippleback. What on Midgard were _they_ doing here? Not that he was arguing.

He barked in summons, both to the twins and to Wanderer, and banked over to Forget Me where they’d spent the night. It was a nondescript chunk of land just off the coast of South Island, an empty forest surrounded by sheer cliffs, and just that. Some liked to speculate on some Meathead conspiracy, but given the originality of the rest of the names of the Meathead Islands, he thought it more likely it was just a reminder there was nothing of interest there.

Regardless, it appeared completely inaccessible except by dragon, unless one braved the sea violently lashing the rocks below to begin a treacherous climb, so it was the perfect place to regroup. Whether the Meatheads noticed their uninvited visitor or not was unknown, not that they could do anything about the three dragons descending onto the little island.

 _“So, Hicster, what’s new?”_ Tuffnut asked as he dismounted, and immediately began stretching.

 _Hicster?_ What in… Actually, Dreamer just wasn’t going to think about it. That seemed wise. “This nest take Fish-Legs, other nest-kin,” he explained, hoping Tuffnut understood.

 _“What’s that Hiccy?”_ Ruffnut asked mischievously. _“Fishlegs fell down the well?”_

Tuffnut immediately decked her, dropping her to the ground, then turned back to him. _“…He didn’t_ actually _fall down the well did he?”_ he asked. Dreamer shook his head with a roll of his eyes. _“Okay, good. So the Meatheads got suspicious over something and captured everyone, but you two got out. That about right?”_

“Yes!” he exclaimed happily, then actually thought about it and slumped with a groan. Sure, Tuffnut had got his meaning, but not by understanding his words, which meant actually planning anything would be a chore.

_“Rats. We were sent here to bring him back so he can find out what has Stormfly freaking out.”_

_“Owwww,”_ Ruffnut complained, getting back to her feet. _“Right in the jaw… Man, why you always gotta be serious with these guys?”_ She stopped and considered something. _“Wait, if we can’t get Fishlegs, does that mean we can’t fix Stormfly? Well, we tried, let’s go back and watch the show!”_

Dreamer rolled his eyes again and scratched at the grass, tearing up the turf and dragging it aside. When he had sufficient space cleared he trod the dirt down flat, then began a rough sketch of the village; he knew it well enough by now, having spent most of the morning observing it from above.

 _“Woah,”_ Ruffnut whispered as he worked.

 _“Quiet, the dragon is talking,”_ Tuffnut admonished her, paying rapt attention.

He only needed to outline half the village to label the two buildings, one with a pair of wings and the other with a horned helmet.

_“Awesome, so we know where they are, let’s break ‘em out and-“_

Dreamer groaned and gestured to some of the many buildings he’d drawn.

_“Okay, fine, mister smarty-no-pants, what do you suggest?”_

After a moment of thought, Dreamer extended a wing over the map, mostly hiding it from sight, then tapped the helmet he’d drawn. Tuffnut leaned under the wing to see what he was doing, then stroked his chin thoughtfully. _“You want to talk to Fishlegs. Fiiiine. Berk can wait a day.”_

Oh, right, he’d said something about Stormfly. Dreamer chirped enquiringly at him, tilting his head with his ears and frills out.

 _“Nah, she’s fine really. Just stressed about something. Been running around the village for days, it’s pretty amusing actually.”_ Well, that wasn’t normal, but they had other things to worry about for now.

So they had to wait until night fell to make their next move. There wasn’t really anything that needed doing in the meantime, so maybe they could shed some light on where the Nadder had come from… and why.

* * *

Finding the source of the errant dragon had been surprisingly easy, but a puzzle in itself. Sniffing around the forest in the direction it had come from, they quickly stumbled upon a set of wagon tracks. Following the tracks led to a clearing that smelled lightly of the Nadder, but more prominently featured what little was left of the wagon. At the other end of the tracks was a secluded inlet. It was difficult to tell how many different boot scents were around it though, but they all led back along the wagon’s trail.

It wasn’t difficult to puzzle out. Someone had brought it on a boat and dragged it to here using a wagon.

So, Dreamer knew _how_. Far more pressing was the _who_ and the _why,_ to which there were no hints whatsoever. Or… was there? Something was bothering him about the Nadder itself.

“Why you say kill Spine-Tail?” he asked Wanderer. It hurt that another dragon had died so soon after the last, and this one by his own teeth, but he harboured no ill feelings towards his friend for it; he simply wanted to know what Wanderer’s reasoning was.

Wanderer swivelled his head in the air to look at him, something not advisable at high speeds but simple at this slow cruise as they watched over the village for more developments. “I see before… in big-warm-nest. Sometimes… nest-kin just stop. Not see, not think.” He warbled sadly. “Sometimes they not move, not eat. Sometimes they fly away, not stop flying. I follow a Spine-Tail once, watch them fly until fall into sea. Sometimes they fight.” He drooped in the air. “They always die. Not can help them.”

Dreamer crooned sadly, drooping as well. Despite his willingness to kill, Wanderer also clearly valued life, at least much more than anyone else Dreamer knew. “What make nest-kin… stop?” he asked quietly.

“I think it different for each. Some when lose fledglings, I not know other reasons. I thought queen caused it, but…”

If they didn’t live long, then either the queen wasn’t to blame for this condition, or something else had caused it in this particular-

That little itch in Dreamer’s memories popped open, the sudden connection bringing with it a flood of realisations, and he looked at Wanderer in horror. “You say when we taken, you nearly lose your thinking…”

Wanderer snapped up to look at him in similarly deep unease. “I… that maybe…”

A growl rose in Dreamer’s throat towards the distant horizon. It still didn’t make complete sense, and he didn’t see what it could accomplish, but it was just too close to ignore. The Outcasts were somewhat organised, and knew how to break a dragon, had _almost_ broken Wanderer, so they were capable of this. None of the tribes would even know anyone from Berk was here, but it was well known that Outcast ships sailed everywhere.

They had also tried to kidnap the Nightstrikers before, so this could be part of a plan, probably to have the Meatheads trap them and so they could be spirited out of the village again, leaving the Hooligans to fight the Meatheads over it. They would never have been rescued.

Dreamer shuddered thinking about that, how someone could go to all this trouble… for what? Why? That, he still didn’t know. He also wasn’t sure it _was_ actually the Outcasts who had set the Nadder on the village, but the more he thought about it the more sense it made. They had to have someone on Berk – no, in _all_ the tribes, probably, someone to pass the information to a boat and get this set up. The informants _here_ could then spread the appropriate response, pointing out the timing and all the things that didn’t add up, blaming the Hooligans.

And all of this led straight back to the _other_ thing he’d been thinking about all afternoon – at what point did he reveal he could communicate in Norse by writing?

Ideally, never. Understanding Norse was one thing, writing it was entirely another, and whatever he thought of anyone else he was pretty sure Astrid would see it as highly suspicious. She also happened to be the one who would not be convinced to keep the secret from Stoick. Dreamer would need to ‘learn’ alongside Wanderer, just as they had with listening to Norse.

But, what if a situation demanded it? Right now, sharing his knowledge could have direct positive results in working out a plan. _Could._ It would certainly have ramifications though.

A life. That was the line he would draw. If he was certain that revealing his nature would save a life, he would suffer the consequences of whatever it wrought. This situation did not qualify at the moment, the riders and dragons were still protected by hospitality, despite the accusations against them, and there was no guarantee that sharing what he knew would change anything.

Wanderer chortled, and Dreamer glanced up to see him smirking at him. “What?”

“You Dreamer. You see things I not, things only you see. But you not see rock-head under your nose.”

Snotlout? Oh, he was carrying a basket of fish towards the dragons. He disappeared inside for a short time, two guards going with him, then reappeared with the guards and returned to what Dreamer had assumed to be the cells.

As long as the dragons were fed as much in the morning, it should be enough. Still, they would be getting pretty restless by now, things needed resolving soon. He rolled his eyes at himself; doing boring things like this he had thoughts to spare, and they always started on something else more interesting and stole his focus. Dreamer crooned _thanks, embarrassed,_ turning his attention back to the ground below.

* * *

A peculiar rapping at the door roused Mogadon, though not completely from sleep. A second rapping was similarly ignored, and he started drifting off again; if it was urgent, it would be a lot louder.

There was silence for a little while before the rapping returned again, and a foot in his back promptly shoved Mogadon from the bed. He groaned into the floorboards while he woke, then fumbled on his wooden leg and stomped downstairs. He was Chief to the whole village, but once inside these walls he knew full well he wasn’t the one in charge. He’d never let on that he liked it that way, but truthfully he was glad that in some things, someone else had control. And what was the sense in taking a strong-spirited woman and expecting her to crumple at his every whim?

That didn’t stop him grumbling about it under his breath on the way to the door, which he flung open and stared in surprise at the pair of black dragons, blending neatly into the night; they were only visible by their silhouettes against the light of a few torches, and their big green eyes that almost seemed to glow in the dark.

He first felt angry at his patrols for not picking up a pair of dragons in the village. A pair of dragons, he then realised, who were the colour of night, and could drop out of the sky anywhere and any time they pleased. “What do you want?” he asked tiredly, not even bothering to try restraining them.

“We just want our friends back,” one of them said in a gruff voice.

“And to show you something in the forest,” said the other in a higher, courser voice.

…

Okay, if he was going to dream, he’d rather do it in bed. He took a step back and started closing the door again.

“Wait wait wait!” said the second voice. “We really are talking to you! Through the power of dark dragon m-“

The voice was cut off by a meaty thump and an exclamation of pain, right as one of the dragons turned its gaze up and growled. “Come on sis, that might be going too far,” the first voice said. “Way to ruin it. Look up, Chief.”

Mogadon leaned out the door to peer up, and was startled to something resembling awake by a pair of Zippleback heads staring down at him from the roof of his house, with a small person sitting on each of the necks. All four of them looked down at him. “Wha’ in-… ‘ho are you?”

“Oh, you know, more dragon riders,” the first one said. “In case the ‘riding a dragon’ thing didn’t give it away.”

“Obviously we’re from Berk,” the questionably feminine one said. “We were sent to get our dragon expert for a little problem back home, only to find you’ve got him locked up somewhere. That’s not very nice, you know.”

“Yer trespassin’,” Mogadon growled. “I should lock you up as well.”

 _“Are_ we trespassing?” the gruff one asked the one next to him. “Because my feet haven’t touched down.”

“I don’t think we have,” the girl replied, waving her feet in the air. “And our dragon hasn’t touched Meathead soil either. I think we’re good.”

“Everythin’ alrigh’ Chief?” the night watch called out, causing the heads of the dragons to twitch towards him.

Mogadon pinched the bridge of his nose, discreetly rubbing his eye with the motion. “As yeh were,” he called out, and the patrol shrugged, but remained to observe. “Look, somethin’ ‘appened, and they’re stayin’ until ah can sor’ i’ ou’.”

“Ooh, yeah, except how long do you think it takes a Monstrous Nightmare to get bored? That looks like a _wooden_ building you’re keeping him in…”

 _“I’m_ surprised he hasn’t already.”

“Ah ge’ yer point,” Mogadon cut them off irritably. These two really grated on him, they must be the notorious Thorston twins. Who had thought it had been a good idea to give _them_ a flying, fire-breathing tool of war? “Wha’ der ya want?”

“Like we said, we want our tribesmen back, including the dragons, and to show you something in the forest.”

“Can’ i’ wai’?” He was exhausted from sorting out all the cleanup and repairs the night before, rehoming several families, then getting everyone’s stories and pouring over them all for inconsistencies.

“I dunno,” the girl said casually, “I’m not an irritable Monstrous Nightmare locked in a flammable structure. Seriously, you got no dragon pens or anything? How do you train your kids?”

Mogadon groaned and grabbed his coat from beside the door.

"No, seriously, where's the ring you throw inexperienced kids into to fight a wild and hungry dragon?"

"You know sis, when you put it that way…"

"Wait, that was just us? Wow…"

It was probably better to just not respond to that. "I ain' offerin' hospitality, bu' I ain' gon' stick ya. Ge' down 'ere." He waved them down, and the Zippleback heads withdrew before the rest of it dropped down onto its stumpy legs. Its two riders then swung off their saddles and took up positions either side of Mogadon, herding him away from his house, and the dragon followed along behind them.

He didn’t really like having the dragon behind him, but the beast seemed just as docile as the others, and he couldn’t see any reason it would attack if it had not already.

“You know, we haven’t blown up _anything_ yet,” the boy whispered across to his sister. “And people say we have no self-control… I almost think we can even keep it until we’re done here.”

“Yeh’d better,” Mogadon growled at him.

“We give our word!” the girl agreed. “It’s better this way.”

He groaned again and rubbed his head; he was too tired to deal with this pair. “‘Urry it up… Where we goin’?”

“As you wish,” the girl said with a flourish and a bow. “Hey, where _are_ we going?” she loudly asked the night, but before Mogadon could grab her in frustration he jumped in surprise as the two Furies dropped down from the roofs to either side of the path, just at the edge of the torchlight, and beckoned. He’d not only forgotten about them, but they’d moved without him knowing about it.

…Fine. There was unlikely to be any harm in checking this out at least, it would be stupid for them to even try anything. And it would give him more credibility later, if it was needed.

The Furies led through the darkness, difficult to make out even by the light of the torch that the Zippleback had lit with a spark. A Night Fury was the real prize for many reasons, if he was aiming to get dragons, but they were well known to be extremely rare. Well, the search would be easier with dragons of his own anyway. How had he been so blind and stubborn before? They were very useful tools.

After a time, something dark and low to the ground created a yawning void in the light cast by the torch, which he grabbed off the boy to get a closer look. A flat wagon, by the look of it, but blackened and burned. Part of the frame looked that it had been broken _after_ being burned. It didn’t look like any of his, so it hadn’t been stolen by the village. He held the torch to the ground behind it, noting the furrows in the ground. “Where der these tracks lead?”

“The water,” the girl replied happily. “A little place you wouldn’t see a boat. Which means it couldn’t be us who brought it here!” She threw her arms out for emphasis.

A trusting man would take that explanation, it indeed put the accusations on the cliff’s edge, but Mogadon wasn’t giving in quite this easily. He had a hunch he would need good leverage to convince the Hooligans to part with their secrets; which was odd, because they had been very open about it at the start, but he knew to trust his gut. “Tha’ don’ mean squat. Ah you tellin’ me tha’ Berk don’ ‘ave boats ‘nemore?”

“See?” the boy asked the Furies, gesturing at Mogadon. “I _told_ you he’d do this, and we tried it your way. _Now_ can we do it the Thorston way?”

What in the… Mogadon didn’t even know where to _start_ with that. It being the middle of the night was not helping matters.

The smaller Fury sighed dramatically with a small groan, but then nodded.

“Yes!” the boy exclaimed, pumping his fist, then turned on Mogadon. “So, we know you’re not interrogating them as much as holding them hostage right now-“

“Careful there,” Mogadon warned, half-drawing his sword, and the boy stepped back with his arms up.

“Hey, no need for that. Just an observation from what Fishlegs told these two. You’re about to learn we have no problem with leveraging people.”

“Yeah, we just happen to need your leverage back,” the girl chimed in, not giving him a chance to think. “So let us explain. First, you met with three dragons and two riders in the middle of the night.”

“And then,” the boy continued, “you said some pretty shifty stuff while following said dragons into the forest.”

Mogadon sagged a little; he couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about, but by their grins, they had carefully guided the conversation, and they _had_ been alternating between whispering and talking loudly. “Is tha’ a threat?” he growled, fully unsheathing his sword.

“Weren’t you listening?” the girl groaned. “It’s _leverage._ And it’ll be forgotten by the end of tomorrow, so just let our tribesmen and dragons go, and we’ll be on our way. We weren’t kidding about needing them back.”

“A threat’s a threa’,” he replied darkly with a grin; this was even better. “Ah’ll have Berk on a plate fer this.”

“That’s funny,” the boy said, stroking his chin with a wide smirk. “I don’t recall being given hospitality.”

“I do believe you’re right brother. I guess we were never here.”

Mogadon’s grin quickly vanished. It was too late now, there were no witnesses, and with a dragon they could just disappear into the night.

“We’ll be watching you on your way back. Well, _they_ will.” He jerked a thumb at the Furies, who grinned toothily. “If you immediately release everyone, you can claim we showed you proof of their innocence.”

“But if you dawdle…” She cackled. “We get to prank a Chief! Stoick’s such a killjoy, we never get away with it.”

“That only works if you dawdle though. Oh, but on the subject of having never been here.” The Zippleback necks snaked forward and the twins hopped into the saddles, and then Mogadon was abruptly alone – as far as he could see, he hadn’t seen the Furies take off – in the forest with the husk of the wagon.

The message was clear. This already looked shady enough, and from what he knew of this pair they would have little trouble building on that; destroying dissenters’ property or just spying on them, policing the village, basically doing anything that might be done on his behalf. And with a few rumours carefully placed with other tribes… He couldn’t even use the Hooligans and dragons he had in custody, as they were protected by hospitality.

The best option was to comply. At least he was still holding the torch.

* * *

Dreamer took a moment to revel in the cool wind brushing over him as he glided through the murky night over Meathead Island. That hadn’t gone quite as well as he’d hoped, but the twins had worked their magic and backed Mogadon into a corner he couldn’t get out of. It was impressive, actually, he’d had to heavily reassess his opinion of them as they plotted out the backup plan. On the other hand, their planning methods, and _how_ they arrived at that idea…

He shook his head and turned his focus back to the Meathead Chief as he made a Terror-line straight for the guarded building.

He took a moment to reflect on that term while Mogadon dismissed the guards and entered. Terrors did not fly particularly straight, or apparently even know where they were going half the time, but it was universally accepted as a straight line. He supposed they flew straight compared to a drunk Viking, at least.

The three Hooligans emerged quickly, looking confused and, in the case of both Jorgensons, tired. It seemed Fishlegs was still wide awake after Dreamer had talked to him through the wall after locating him.

Mogadon led them through the village to the building housing the dragons, unlatched it, and stomped off; probably back to his own house. Dreamer and Wanderer glided down as the dragons emerged. Dreamer was just relieved Hookfang hadn’t-

A flash of light and a scream from Snotlout almost refuted that thought, but at least he’d been let out first.

Dreamer landed and bounded up to Fishlegs, who had been bowled over and was currently wheezing a greeting at Meatlug, and joined her with a lick to his face. _“Good to see you too,”_ he gasped back, trying to push Meatlug off himself. _“Little help?”_

Meatlug was encouraged to give him some space, then the Furies herded the riders onto their dragons and beckoned with a bark. The dragons needed no further encouragement to stretch their wings, and followed them into the air. Dreamer noticed with some amusement that Fishlegs was clinging desperately to his saddle, wide eyes apparently sightless in this low light.

Spitelout was the first one to speak, as they pulled over the Meathead docks. _“So, anyone care to explain wha’ in Thor’s name is goin’ on?”_

 _“Dunno, but I can’t see a thing up here,”_ Snotlout called back. _“Hookfang, light up!”_

Fishlegs relaxed by degrees with the sudden light, pulling Meatlug into formation next to Hookfang. _“Hiccup got us out somehow. I told him everything Mogadon’s been asking about, he went off, and now we’re out. Though I don’t know where we’re going.”_

 _“I can answer that,”_ Ruffnut’s gravelly voice called out from above.

 _“As can I as well,”_ came its gruff counterpart. _“But that would be redundant.”_

 _“So you pair came ter ge’ us,”_ Spitelout groaned. _“Ah suppose i’s too much to ‘ope not everythin’s fallen apar’ since we left?”_

 _“Nah, really we were just told to get Fishlegs,”_ Ruffnut explained, pulling into formation and becoming visible by Hookfang’s flames.

 _“But given what we rescued you from… and how… it’s probably better if you all come,”_ Tuffnut followed up.

 _“Ah don’ even wanna know,”_ Spitelout grumbled miserably.

 _“So what am I flying into exactly?”_ Fishlegs groaned with just as much enthusiasm. _“Aside from this infinite void of darkness.”_

Dreamer barked at him in mock-offense; night was the _perfect_ time to be flying.

 _“Oh, Stormfly’s gone crazy, and Astrid can’t work it out,”_ Tuffnut explained mildly. _Speaking of, she’s gonna hang you up by your ears if you don’t bring your books back, so go back and get them if you need to.”_

 _“What? The Dragonese book? It’s still on Berk. Unlike_ some _of us, I only need_ one _explanation for why an idea is stupid.”_

_“Well you better find it after you fix Stormfly.”_

Dreamer tuned out the conversation after a while, just focusing on the flight, and it died down once Hookfang’s flames burned out anyway. They flew on in silence, the calm tailwind a pleasant push to the journey. Mostly he focused on the water below, and the scattered reflections of the lights in the sky above. Perhaps halfway through the trip the cloud cover quickly became more solid though, and completely obscured the sky. He could scent rain on the air, but recent, not upcoming.

“Hey,” he said to Fishlegs and pulled in next to him as Berk manifested as a speck on the horizon. “Need talk about that nest-alpha.”

 _“Hiccup?”_ Fishlegs asked, looking around. _“What’s up?”_

Hiccup chirped, getting the boy facing the right direction. “That nest-alpha. We not can show him how get scale-wing-hunters.”

_“Uh, can we have this conversation when I can actually see what you’re saying? Or, you know, anything at all?”_

If smacking himself in the face was a possibility, Dreamer would have done it. How had he forgotten how dark it was? He gurgled apologetically and soared a little higher, ears burning in embarrassment.

“What he say?” Wanderer growled quietly, levelling next to him.

“I forget he not can see,” Dreamer admitted, self-consciously adjusting himself in the air.

Wanderer looked at him in surprise, then laughed. “Other nest-kin not can see good when dark like this, not like Nightstriker. Better than Long-Paws, but not good.”

“I know,” he groaned back. “I not think. This boring.”

“We could fly ahead?”

Dreamer hummed, considering that. They didn’t really need to be here… but just leaving everyone alone in the darkness would be rude, and he couldn’t actually communicate properly to tell anyone what he wanted to do. He couldn’t even ask Hookfang to light up, as he’d burned himself off earlier. “No, we stay. We nearly there.”

The night journey ended uneventfully, well before midnight, the others gliding down to the village while Dreamer and Wanderer looped over it. At the twins’ insistence, Fishlegs went straight for Astrid’s house, figuring that for Stormfly it would be worth being woken in the night; they’d been expected back around midday, so they were late enough already.

As with the journey out, the long trip back hadn’t really tired Dreamer, but… something about returning home set a weariness into him, a desire to curl up and sleep. He yawned widely, blinking in sudden drowsiness, as Wanderer himself yawned squeakily nearby.

Completing their loop of the village, they turned for their den set into the cliff above the stable, their dark and inviting little cave. After sleeping locked in a barn for almost a week, then one night huddled in the roots of a tree out in the open forest of Forget Me, he–

_“Hiccup! Toothy!”_

Both their ears went up at the distant call, and both of them groaned. What could Fishlegs want _now_ of all times? Actually, that wasn’t all that difficult to work out. “Must be for Storm-Fly,” he reasoned aloud, as that was what he had gone to investigate.

“I want help Storm-Fly,” Wanderer agreed as they pulled out of their descent and turned back to the village.

Fishlegs was where Dreamer expected him to be, standing outside Astrid’s house, though Astrid herself appeared to still be inside. The Nightstrikers landed and bounded to a stop next to him, though he looked confused. _“Astrid, they’re here.”_

Astrid backed out of her house, pulling the door closed, then started walking down the village. Wanderer snorted, and Dreamer had to agree; that had been _rude._ She hadn’t so much as looked at them, and the hood on the thick coat she wore had obscured her face. Wrrr, she was more of a morning person…

He shook his head and warbled enquiringly at Fishlegs.

 _“I dunno, she just told me she needed you guys,”_ he said with a confused shrug. _“And apparently we’re going to see Gobber.”_

Gobber? How bad _was_ this? He crooned worriedly as they followed after Astrid, who trudged along ahead.

Gobber’s house was near the forge, which was near the docks for convenience, so it wasn’t far. Astrid knocked, and there was sound from inside presumably as Gobber fitted his leg and lit a lamp or something.

There was something eerie about all this, but he had trouble putting his claw on it. Not that it was the middle of the night, more something to do with the near dead silence around them. But that wasn’t unusual at night.

It took about as long as it had for them to walk there, but eventually the door swung open and Astrid walked inside.

 _“Gobber?”_ Fishlegs asked as he followed her in, looking around. _“What’s this about?”_

Dreamer had never seen inside Gobber’s house before, despite being his apprentice for a few years, and looked around curiously as he entered. It was simple, though there was subtly a lot more iron around than anywhere else; in fixtures, random ornaments, many of the prosthetics hanging on one wall, just little things here and there. It was generally quite organised too, a lot of clutter around but a sort of neat clutter.

It was the sort of state Dreamer figured he would have kept himself if he’d grown up a blacksmith and alone. Except that even living on his own, Gobber somehow managed to match the sour musk of a dozen or more Vikings living together.

 _Clunk,_ the door closing behind them raised an ear. _Clack,_ the latch sliding into place a moment later raised the other.

Before Dreamer could even acknowledge the rapidly growing unease, a heavy rumbling had him spin – and then back away with a loud hiss, mirroring Wanderer, flashing teeth and crouching low.

Gobber tugged his hook from the dresser he’d just dragged in front of the door, looking at them sadly, and it was immediately evident why Astrid hadn’t spoken or let them see her; she looked downcast, defeated, and overwhelmed by guilt. _“I’m sorry,”_ she whispered.


	27. Manoeuvre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of this chapter came out all at once, which was a great way to keep on top of the story this month what with visiting family and a damn cold I can't seem to shake. It did make editing a bit of a trial though, my thanks to VigoGrimborne on FFN for checking things over for me.

Dreamer frantically took in the situation – door barred, no windows, two likely hostile Long-Paws plus Fish-Legs. He ruled out a back door, this house practically overlooked a cliff, and if there was one it would be barred too.

_“I’m sorry…”_ That might have been more believable if Astrid had actually been looking at anyone while saying it, instead of staring at the floor.

_“For what, exactly?”_ Fishlegs demanded, stepping in front of the Nightstrikers. _“What’s this really about? Clearly not Stormfly.”_

_“It was, but… Gods this is so messed up…”_

_“It’s an order,”_ Gobber said darkly. _“The Furies ah ter be captured. Step aside.”_

Captured!? He’d gathered as much, but hearing Gobber _say_ it made him-

Fishlegs held out a placating hand, urging them to silence their growls. _“I can’t believe Stoick would order that.”_

_“Yer righ’, he wouldn’. Step. Aside.”_

_“But hospitality-“_

_“You know tha' ended the moment they left our our waters.”_ Gobber took a step forward, and Fishlegs shrank back with the big man towering over him. _“Now.”_

Whatever was going on here, Fishlegs wasn’t going to save them; it was just too big for him to handle. But what _was_ going on!? Dreamer shoved all that aside for now and frantically glanced around, noting the lights in the room and reading Wanderer, who glanced back at him before sizing up Gobber.

Okay… He could take Astrid, just distract her or tangle her up long enough to put out the two lamps and torch; the lamps were designed to extinguish if knocked over, and he figured if dragons could breathe fire then he could extinguish the torch in his mouth. Both Nightstrikers coiled onto their hindlegs, on a hair trigger.

All it took was for Gobber to place his hooked arm against Fishlegs’ side, and firmly push him out of the way.

Dreamer launched forward, darted around Gobber and rammed head-first into Astrid’s midsection, carrying her into the wall just behind her. She doubled over with a grunt, wrapping her arms weakly around his neck even as she did so, but he just threw his head to the side and tossed her to the floor.

Wanderer grunted behind him, but scrabbling of claws on wood said he was still fighting. Dreamer slapped the first lantern with his tail, sending it tumbling to land on its side, and the room dimmed slightly. He leapt to the other one and knocked it over as well, in his haste doing so a little more forcefully than was necessary.

The torch was in an iron bracket on the wall over the hearth, and did a good job of lighting the room. Dreamer crossed the distance in a single leap, then reared up to-

Cold metal hooked around his foreleg, and he yelped as he was yanked away. Wanderer was getting to his paws again and leaped forward in a storm of teeth and claws – he was _not_ holding back – but only found wood and metal, Gobber expertly fending him off with his prosthetics and a shield he’d pulled from somewhere.

The burly Viking had put himself in front of the torch, staring grimly at the Nightstrikers, but Dreamer couldn’t pay further attention to that. He spun to deal with Astrid, who was no doubt getting back-

_Sound._ It was suddenly all that existed. Noise, a metallic ringing accompanied by a wooden echo, drilled through Dreamer’s ears and hammered on the inside of his head, on his very mind, distorting his vision so much he was no longer sure which way he was facing. He couldn’t even _see_ anymore, was only vaguely aware of tripping and hitting the floor, barely aware of his own shrieks of pain. Clamping his paws over his ears helped, but not nearly enough.

Finally, the assault on his senses ceased… mostly. There was a lot of shouting, but it was a distant noise. He might have blacked out, had no idea how long it had been, no way to know.

There was still an argument going on, and he strained his ears to pick out something, _anything._ It was… Fishlegs arguing with Astrid. And in the background of that…

Wanderer’s panicked whimpers reeled his mind back into focus, almost painfully dragging it through the fog clouding it. His eyes snapped open and he snarled through his clenched teeth, pulling himself to his paws through sheer force of will, only one thought in his mind. There was suddenly weight on his back, but it didn’t matter, it wasn’t enough to stop him, didn’t stem the promises of retribution and death crackling from his throat.

A wide form loomed over him and something soft lay across his jaw, but it was inconsequential, as was the sorrowful whisper. What mattered was Wanderer, and alleviating his distress; however that needed to be done.

The hand slid further back, and fingertips firmly pressed into the sensitive bundle of nerves he’d discovered on Wanderer long ago in the cove. It quickly pressed down on his thoughts and walled off his rage, and the last thing he knew was collapsing with a groan.

* * *

Fishlegs glared at Astrid as Hiccup collapsed under her; it seemed the fastest – and possibly _only_ – way to diffuse the situation. He kept his hands on the wide jaw to lower it gently to the ground. “You’ll regret this,” he told her darkly.

“I already regret it,” she mumbled, then climbed off to kneel next to him and grabbed a bundle of rope from against the wall. “But I don’t have a choice. We’ll just have to get them back again.”

“Because that worked _so_ well last time,” he sneered, gently stroking Hiccup’s head, then stood up and walked over to Toothy as Gobber finished restraining him in thick ropes; his frantic thrashing had probably made it very difficult for a Viking with one hand, but somehow Gobber had managed. “I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly, then pressed the same point on Toothy’s neck, and the dragon went limp and silent with a sigh. Much more merciful than drumming a tankard into a table, that had hurt Fishlegs’ ears and he wasn’t even a dragon.

And now, in the silence, he allowed himself to shudder and fear. That was a sound he’d now heard from both Furies, and had no desire to ever hear again, a sound that thoroughly and flawlessly mixed together every sound of death that Fishlegs knew. With a larger Fury, and in this enclosed space…

“Yeh weren’ kiddin’ abou’ tha’ sound,” Gobber said quietly. Even he, the seasoned dragon slayer who had seemingly effortlessly held off Toothy and then Hiccup as well for those few short moments, looked nervous and shaken.

Fishlegs apologetically stroked Toothy’s head. After everything he and Hiccup had done for Berk, for the whole Archipelago, they were being betrayed. Again.

The words were in his mouth, words he desperately wanted to say. _This is Hiccup Haddock and Toothless you’re betraying._ But they wouldn’t form. He just couldn’t make that first sound. Part of it was a voice of reason that said Hiccup wouldn’t have wanted it, and that it would complicate things to no end, _if_ he was even believed, which was unlikely. There was also a crippling fear of the unknown, as he had absolutely no idea how it would be received, and seeing the wisdom in why Hiccup had kept it hidden in the first place; real magic was a dangerous thing to allude to on Berk.

Whatever angle he approached it from was like another wall in front of saying those words.

He shook his head and turned to address Astrid, who was half-heartedly wrapping ropes around Hiccup. “I believe you were about to tell me what in _Odin’s name_ you’re doing!?”

“Easy lad,” Gobber grumbled as he waddled past, “this ain’ ‘er fault.”

“It kind of is,” Astrid replied quietly, dropping the ropes and letting Gobber take over. “I let him into the village.”

“You ain’ go’ tha’ privilege, yeh jus’ greeted ‘im.”

“I ignored Stormfly’s warnings. Couldn’t understand her. She said he hurt _‘fledglings’_ , and that meant me, which was nonsense… And you took your stupid books!”

It took Fishlegs a moment to recognise the Dragonese word. “‘Fledglings’. And no, I didn’t. Wait… He hurt fledglings?” He inhaled sharply as he put everything together; what Astrid was alluding to but with the additional information of Stormfly’s warning… “She must have meant the Furies, and you would have recognised Dagur, so-“

“He even called himself _Aldin,”_ Astrid groaned.

“And you’re giving them both back to that monster,” Fishlegs said down to her.

“Now listen ‘ere,” Gobber said, levelling his hook at Fishlegs before resuming tying the ropes. “She didn’ ‘ave a choice. It don’ matter _who_ ‘e is, ‘e’s go’ Stoick, an’ ‘e’s demandin’ the Furies. Berk’s law is clear, any price is ter be paid, an’ they’re only dragons.”

Fishlegs glared at him incredulously, but Gobber just shrugged. “Either way, any price. All the elders agreed.”

“Did anyone consider asking _them?”_ Fishlegs asked angrily.

“Given yer the only one who can talk to ‘em properly, no. Yeh gotta see it from their perspective.”

“No, because I’m apparently the only one seeing it from theirs,” he shot back, gesturing at the Furies, then kicked aside the dresser barring the door and stormed out of the house. He knew it was futile, once a decision like this was made it was as difficult to change it as to move a mountain, but he had to try; if for no other reason than because the alternative meant accepting what was happening.

* * *

A tentative nudge roused Alvin from a light sleep, Savage carefully tapping his boot. “They’s comin’.”

That immediately got Alvin to his feet, though his neck and shoulders vehemently burned their complaints at moving. It was good he had planned all of this out in advance; while he was fairly good at sectioning off and ignoring pain, it was still distracting and would make him prone to mistakes.

No matter. He was getting what he wanted. He strode through the dark after Savage to the tall bluff just in time to see Stoick hoisted several feet into the air, dangling on a rope draped over a thick tree branch above, and hanging out over the edge. Some torches were also being lit and set up for a more dramatic effect.

It took several minutes for the group to appear below, a single Outcast leading three Hooligans who looked to be the blacksmith, Astrid, and an older man he didn’t recognise. None of them looked particularly capable of causing trouble, not that they could in the situation they were in.

He stroked his moustache. It was tempting to just take over Berk and be done with it, but there were still a lot of weapons the Hooligans could use, and it would probably mean fighting the dozen or so dragons they had with riders. Such a fight would be bloody for both sides, and while he didn’t care for the lives of the scum he ruled, he doubted it would leave him with a very secure hold on the island.

No, best to just take what he was sure he could get.

“Well, let’s make this brief,” he called down, “as I am certain you have a few fools trying to sneak around as I speak. It is a long walk, but we should not dally.” Though anything less than twenty warriors would quickly be overwhelmed, not that _they_ knew that. “To be honest for once, I don’t actually want to see Stoick dead or deposed, I just want my dragons, so I’ve set this up nice and fair. Attach my Furies to the rope, and as Stoick returns to you, they’ll be returned to me.”

He eyed the dark shapes being slung off the backs of the two older Vikings, wondering if Stoick would actually be heavy enough to move them. If not, they had plenty of manpower to hoist it along. “No funny business though… It’s a looooong way down. Best make sure it’s nice and taught when you tie it too, don’t want to test how much of a jolt this rope can take.”

“You poisonous snake!” Astrid shouted up while the other two complied. “You’ll never get away with this! We’re going to hunt you down and skin you alive!”

“I’m sure you’ll try,” Alvin replied smugly. He watched with some curiosity as she hunched over both Furies, putting a hand to their necks and glaring up at him all the while.

As soon as they were secured he nodded to the two pinning the rope, and they let it go as gradually as they could, the Hooligan Chief dropping about a foot to pick up the slack.

Whatever the difference in weight, it was apparently not enough to drag the course rope over the smoothed and greased trough in the branch; that was impressive actually, the two dragons had grown considerably in the last few months. They were hauled up, Stoick acting as a counterbalance to lighten the load and speed the process. Alvin actually saw the moment the Chief saw what was happening and began straining to break free, but even his prodigious strength was no match for the sheer number of ropes he was practically entombed in.

In no time at all the dragons were being swung in onto the bluff, leaving Stoick hanging just out of reach of those below, as he had been hoisted up a short way before the Furies were attached. At some point Alvin had devised a big gloating speech for this moment, but he could no longer remember half of it and now just couldn’t be bothered. He wanted off this cursed island. He drew his sword and cut the rope, then made off through the dark forest with his prizes.

* * *

The spot behind a Nightstriker’s jaw was a sensitive place under the hide, similar to an overused and cramped muscle. Wanderer’s now also ached in the same way, having been pressed repeatedly by the traitorous female and then struck by one whose scent tugged frantically at his memory in the scant moments of groggy consciousness he was afforded.

He was waking again, far less rapidly than the first time, and groaned at the stiffness creeping down his neck. An assenting grumble pricked his ears, a sound wholly welcome and yet at the same time not, as it meant Dreamer was trapped there with him.

The panic of having his wings, legs and mouth tightly bound, however, was creeping in again; being knocked unconscious any number of times would not assuage that reaction. He whimpered and struggled, feebly at first but gaining strength with every rapid breath. His bindings creaked but did not break, and the one around his head felt like cold hard metal.

A worried but calming croon sounded beside him, and something brushed his shoulder. He flinched away at first, but quickly recognised Dreamer’s warm breath on his scales and managed to roll so they could see each other. “Not worry,” Dreamer said confidently, though with a trace of _fear_ and _concern_. The metal bindings wrapping around and in front of his face did not help his image.

Wanderer whined disbelievingly. As much as he hated to admit it, he recognised these scents, the type of raised surface he was on, and the hard binding around his leg; very specific things that pointed at the one who had taken him last season-cycle, who had deprived him of claw and tooth before starving and torturing him for its own unfathomable reasons.

“Not worry,” Dreamer repeated, determination in his eyes. “We not dead now, so they not want us dead.” He leaned forward, as much as one could when lying on their front and totally bound, and purred darkly, almost a growl. “We together. We strong.”

Together… And yet… “I not strong enough for this,” Wanderer whined.

Dreamer sighed, his bright green eyes speaking _compassion, love, sympathy._ “Stay with me. Whatever you need do, not lose your thinking. I get us free.”

“He too careful, not think he slip again.”

“Again?” Dreamer warbled. “This Long-Paw that take you last season-cycle? Long-Paw you…” His nose scrunched. “…eat paw?”

“Yes.” That much was certain.

But rather than despair, Dreamer grinned smugly. “He want teach us. He not need to.”

Wanderer wished he felt his confidence, but he didn’t understand. This was Dreamer’s territory, and the trust he had in his friend-mate was balanced by the pain and torment he had experienced before; he just couldn’t see anyone getting them out of this.

The ground was swaying, he realised, meaning they were being taken away again. For a long time all he could do was waste his energy trying to break free, then listen to the water slapping against the flat trees surrounding them and the stomping around above them. A torturously familiar wait, unable to move and dreading what was coming, but nothing happening until long after his stomach was complaining its emptiness.

He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest, but nor could he move or flee or fight or anything. It was maddening. Dreamer’s comforting croons and big expressive eyes were probably the only thing that held him to reality. Dreamer was here, Dreamer would know what to do.

That faith was challenged when a familiar Long-Paw with sharp teeth entered the room, brandishing a familiar large claw.

* * *

“Er… Boss? You better come see this…”

Alvin groaned and rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the early morning sky. Couldn’t anyone do _anything_ without him personally overseeing it? He desperately needed rest; he’d been far too busy setting things up to get much sleep on Berk. “You did it before, just do it again.”

“I told you they’s bigger now! But that’s not what I's sayin'..."

Something about the tone piqued Alvin's curiosity; it wasn’t fear or anger, but rather a wary amazement. He sighed and got to his feet, suppressing the pain with sheer willpower, and took a moment to glance at the fleet around him. About twenty boats strong, most of what he could muster, to dissuade and confound pursuit. There did not yet seem to be any dragons following them, but then they weren’t even out of sight of Berk yet.

He stared at the open hatch to the hold for a long moment, wondering how such a simple task could have become so difficult, then climbed down into the hold as delicately as he could. This had better be good…

His Furies were on the table, the manacles holding them despite the open door – there was little else preventing one of them from leaving, as he realised with a start that most of its ropes had been removed, and while an iron muzzle secured its teeth there was nothing to stop it using its claws. It blinked at him and then sat there nonplussed, watching them.

While Savage hadn't been correct before, he was now; Alvin was going to enjoy watching his mauling for dragging him down because he couldn't do his job properly.

But Savage approached it with only the usual wariness, picking up the heavy knife from a box against the wall on the way. He approached a little to the side so Alvin could see it, and it stared back at him. The bound Fury struggled and growled shrilly, but the unbound Fury…

Alvin’s eyes widened as it casually put its paw forward, its gaze casually going between him and the knife. Savage was standing in front of the other, obscuring its reaction, but its throes were rocking the heavy table and it was by no means quiet.

Savage glanced back at him, then held the knife over the claws, too lightly to be intending on doing anything with it. It soon became clear why, the paw was whipped away with a growl, and the dragon then deliberately shook its head. It rapped the tips of its claws on the table, then lowered itself and held the paw out again, but this time with the pad and hooked claws pointing upwards; it had to lean to the side to do so, its joints not quite flexible enough otherwise.

It stared impassively as its claws were cut, much more neatly and cleanly than Savage had managed the first time, then held the paw up and flexed it curiously. Apparently satisfied, it nodded at Alvin, who could only stare as the remainder of its claws were trimmed in painless moments.

“That… is something,” Alvin admitted slowly. “Will the other cooperate now too?” That was met with a short but fierce growl from the previously placid Fury, its eyes narrow slits and its teeth showing through the muzzle.

That couldn’t be a coincidence. “Do you understand me, dragon?” It relaxed its expression, but indicated nothing either way. “Well we don’t need the other one anyway. Truss it up and toss it over the port rail.” The smallest response, its ears twitching and pupils narrowing a little further. Alvin was no expert on dragon mannerisms though, so it wasn’t quite proof…

Savage, on the other hand, did a double-take. “What!? You dun _really_ want me to…?”

_Tch,_ the downside of working with gullible morons. If the dragon _did_ understand, it was _much_ smarter than his lackey…

* * *

_Crack… Crack… Thunk. Crack… Crack… Thunk._

The sounds were rhythmic, and somehow synchronised whether intentional or not. Fishlegs hadn’t even tried sleeping, and of course it was far too late for anyone to do anything by the time he even got Aunt Ragnhild out of bed and learned just how bleak things were; Outcast fleet on the island, most of the stock of weapons useless, and Stoick kidnapped. It was ironic that Hiccup was probably the one who would know what to do.

So, unable to do anything, he had eaten. A lot. He ate until his aunt returned from checking in with Stoick, by which time the house’s food stores were practically empty. On his way to the storehouse to get more, he had decided to investigate the regular sound echoing faintly down the village and found the Chief splitting wood in front of his house, enormous logs almost as wide as Fishlegs himself. Astrid was also there, some of the logs stacked to provide a target for her to throw her axe at.

_Crack… Crack… Thunk._

Devoid of anything better to do, Fishlegs plopped himself down and listened to them work the wood, Stoick methodically breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces and Astrid reducing a gnarly knot into a splintered mess. At some point he’d got his notebook out and begun doodling Night Furies, though he didn’t remember when. Thinking seemed pointless, they’d all been through this before.

Not quite the first to rise, but the first to acknowledge them, was surprisingly the twins, announcing themselves early in the dawn. “Please don’t tell me I have to punch someone,” Tuffnut groaned as he approached. “As much as I like punching people, I prefer not needing a reason. Reasons suck.”

“I dunno,” Ruffnut mused, “having a reason makes it more satisfying… Though we should probably do something about that fleet on the horizon.”

_Crack!_ The next log split so hard one of the halves whizzed past Fishlegs’ shoulder to land somewhere behind him, and Stoick tossed the wood splitter aside and stomped off towards the Great Hall.

“…Something I said?”

“It’s an Outcast fleet,” Astrid said bluntly. “That Aldin guy was actually Alvin.”

Tuffnut froze, and Ruffnut glanced at him before stepping forward. “Uhh, somethin’ we should know?” she asked quietly.

“They got Stoick,” Astrid replied in a tired and flat tone. “We had to trade the Furies to get him back.” She didn’t even try to avoid Ruffnut’s punch, taking it straight in the cheek and staggering from the impact.

“You want in on this?” Ruffnut growled back at her brother.

“Hiccy? Toothy?” Tuffnut looked dazed. “See, what did I tell you about reasons!? I can’t-… I don't even want… You don't deserve…" He turned and dropped to sit on his heels, rocking back and forth a little.

"Eh, suit yourself." Ruffnut socked Astrid again right as she regained her balance, this time knocking her onto her side. "Two dragons, two hits. You good?" She offered a hand, which Astrid accepted to help her to her feet.

"Thanks Ruff…"

"Anytime. So, what's the plan?"

"Well, the village is practically defenceless so we've all been ordered to stay within sight until Gobber can fix the damaged weapons, which will take a few days," Fishlegs supplied, going back to his drawing. "We also don't know which ship they're on, and the fleet is too big to assault anyway. Even if we _were_ allowed to go, they're likely to split up into twice as many targets as we can follow." He threw his pencil into the pile of wood Stoick had left behind and snapped the notebook shut. "And that's assuming they’re even _on_ one of those boats! For all we know he’s still here, just waiting to take over the island!” That had been one of the biggest concerns brought up by the elders, and it was a reasonable one.

“Screw this.” Tuffnut abruptly stood up and brought his fingers to his mouth to whistle, Ruffnut copying him to create the dual pitch to summon their dragon. “We’re gonna go drop rocks on those sick cowards. Big ones. Weighed down with _malice_ , and _retribution_.”

“I like where your mind’s at,” Ruffnut said with a grin.

“But we all have to stay here!” Fishlegs protested. As much as he hated to admit it, those boats could be near empty with the remainder of the crews waiting for everyone to take off after the bait.

“One less dragon won’t make a difference, and we won’t be long,” Ruffnut said casually while they waited. “Just go out one at a time and we can sink three ships between us.

“Two,” Astrid murmured. “Stormfly isn’t… I went to her last night, but I dunno… She…”

“Well duh,” Tuffnut shot back levelly, “that’s probably because she wants to know what you did to look guilty enough to have betrayed and sold a respected friend.” Barf and Belch landed heavily next to him, and both twins climbed into their saddles. “Oh, _wait.”_ The dragon then launched itself into the air and disappeared from sight.

Fishlegs watched them go, then got to his feet with a sigh and whistled through his fingers to summon his own dragon. “Come on Astrid, might as well try to patch things up with Stormfly.”

* * *

Alvin picked one of the two Valkyries out of the Maces and Talons box, then kicked the box across the room. His smaller Fury watched him curiously as he set the piece down on the table next to it, then as he unlocked and removed its shackle. “Fetch,” he commanded, pointing at the piece and then to the box.

He was curious how this Fury would react. The bigger one, still tied up and growling constantly, had retrieved the whole box, which was something Alvin had wholeheartedly approved of; why only have one when you can have many? So he was satisfied, if not particularly surprised, when this Fury did the same, actually lifting the box in its forelegs and waddling across the room with it to set it on the table. The books he’d stolen said they were highly intelligent, but failed to do them justice.

However, what he most certainly did _not_ expect was for his Fury to then take all the pieces out and lay them out in their correct places on an imaginary board, fumbling due to its wide paws. Alvin stared slack-jawed at it as it nudged a piece forward, making the first move, then stared back at him expectantly.

It was _this_ one. _This_ was the 'fang-free' dragon he needed, he had no doubt of that. The irony that it was the one he had given to the Berserkers, because it was smaller, was not lost on him. Like the ticking thing made him a master of time, this would make him a master of… well, what _couldn’t_ he do with a Night Fury at his beck and call? One that understood complex commands and concepts, who could eavesdrop, assassinate, and traverse his Archipelago faster than a boat could sail to the next island over.

And it was not immediately aggressive towards him like every other dragon. It might even be a connection to tamed dragons, ferrying messages in hours instead of days, hauling loot skimmed from villages. Forget the other King’s Things, he could easily conquer with just these two. Though, he _would_ look good in a crown, particularly now to hide his bald head.

As much as Alvin wanted to see how well it could actually play the game, he turned and left the room, telling Savage to feed them on the way through the hold. It was playing _his_ game, not the other way around. It had yet to truly learn who was in charge here.

* * *

At the start of the second night, Dreamer had a bit of a strange task that he was not particularly looking forward to. After missing three meals and now approaching the fourth, Wanderer was starting to look a bit desperate, though he still wouldn’t consider allowing his claws to be trimmed; Dreamer couldn’t blame him for that, wincing at the thought of having them cut from the top as the full weight of the cut would be taken by the claw’s connection into the paw.

The conflict must have been driving Wanderer mad, it was evident in his eyes every time Alvin – now inexplicably missing his eyebrows and every hair off his head – entered the room. The first time had been the worst, when Dreamer had been given two fish, tried to give one to Wanderer, and subsequently had that one taken away.

Dreamer had hoped that by giving Alvin the obviously better choice, he would forget about Wanderer and trying to get him to cooperate, but no such luck.

Now that they were finally alone, and likely to be left alone, he focused, taking stock of his internal muscles and trying to remember what he could of what he had to do. He tested the muscles around his stomach, stumbling on the very peculiar feeling he was blindly looking for, then successfully heaved up one of the two fish he’d been given.

And _that_ was something he never wanted to do again. He gagged and shook his head, then purred _reassurance_ in reply to Wanderer’s _grateful, relieved_ whimper.

"No," Wanderer admonished when Dreamer started again. "You need strength. This enough…"

Dreamer huffed, knowing that wasn’t true; what he was getting himself wasn’t really enough either. "It really not hurt this way," he said gently, laying a paw out in front of him. "Then you can stretch, eat."

A low, weary but determined growl. "I not can do what he want. That how I lose thinking.” He whined miserably, curling up to hide his head behind his tail. “Not can do this… not again…”

_Confidence, protect,_ Dreamer purred, settling down so that their ears were touching – all he could manage with how they were shackled by their hindlegs and muzzled – and stretching a wing over his friend.

He did his best to hide that part of him was panicking as well, a horrible itching detached feeling in his tail from having it bound again, unable to spread the fins. There was also a bleak reminder in the padlock clicking against the muzzle whenever he moved, further putting him on edge. He couldn’t afford to panic, but it was there all the same, insidious claws that raked over him in intermittent waves.

They needed to get free, and sooner rather than later. For that to happen… He had a plan, of sorts. It was a very basic plan when it came down to it, not that he had a lot to work with here, but it had conditions that needed to be met first. He first needed a modicum of Alvin’s trust, and then it was down to circumstance.

He sighed, though he never stopped purring, and thought on the details, anything to get his mind off his tail. Everything that could go right, everything that could go wrong, and everything in between. It all came down to that tiny sliver of trust… But how did one earn the trust of one who could neither trust, nor be trusted?

* * *

With a grimace, Alvin carefully touched his fingertips over his bald head, feeling out the burn that practically covered it. By now he would at least expect some stubble to be poking through, but the blistered skin remained smooth, and having seen these burns before he knew he wasn’t likely to ever have hair again. At least the pain was finally subsiding, and he could think a bit more clearly.

Which was good, because he was playing a bit of a delicate game here. He knew dragons could summon each other from long distances, and if he was being followed then letting a Night Fury onto the deck would reveal exactly which boat held them, and thus which to follow.

But, though he had been watching carefully, there was nary a hint of his boat being followed. A few had been sunk in the first day, but as far as he knew none were followed. Which was a pity, because it meant the forty or so Outcasts he’d left behind were probably dead by now. Oh well, this was why he kept most of them as Nameless after all, so nobody remembered them and realised who had been sent to their deaths.

So two days sailing felt like a reasonable distance from Berk to relax a bit; as much as he could with a gateway to Hel itself over his shoulders and head. However, two days was about the time a dragon was able to hold itself, so unless he wanted a heavy stink weighing down the air in the hold, he needed to let them out.

For one of them, that was easy, and he watched it carefully as it roamed the deck; it wasn’t going anywhere with its tail bound, and it was mostly harmless with no claws and the heavy muzzle.

For the other, it was not so simple.

He cursed himself for setting a precedent, he should have just had Savage cut both their claws to start with. By letting it have them, he would send the wrong message by cutting them now. His dragons needed to consider him predictable, there would only be pain if they disobeyed, at least in these early stages. On the other hand, he couldn’t use it as a punishment either because then it would be rewarded for the pain by being let out, what he now realised as his mistake last time. What a mess.

Doing a double-take, he realised his dragon had its head inside a crate that stored various sailing equipment; the black sail for sneaking around at night, spare ropes, and so on. The reason for his surprise was that it sported two heavy latches so that bad weather could not pry the lid open and spill the contents, but that had been no barrier whatsoever.

It got itself into the tattered scraps kept for repairs, and somehow managed to tangle itself in a large piece with a hole torn through it. It didn’t panic, just pawed at it and rolled around, trying to get it off.

As amusing as it was, it couldn’t be allowed to have fun. “Savage, put that stuff away and chase it off.” But then the way it was wrapped around its paw got his attention, giving him an idea. “Actually, no, tie it up, then go wrap up my other dragon’s legs with it.”

“You’s the boss,” Savage slurred back correctly.

A short while later, Savage led the dragon up by the handle on its muzzle, which it looked and sounded most displeased with. Good, it would get better treatment if it cooperated.

And then Alvin burst out laughing as it took a few steps on the deck, swinging its legs in wide exaggerated motions and trying to kick off the scraps of sail tied over the paws; he’d have to remember that if he ever needed any entertainment. His dragon turned at the sound, eyes narrowing on the sword pressed into the smart dragon’s shoulder. He grinned at it and tightened his grip on the hilt.

The unruly dragon immediately backed off, taking a step back and silencing its growl, though it glared at him. _Interesting…_ He knew they had a strong connection with each other, but the sheer willpower this one had demonstrated last year had made him think they were made of tougher stuff than this. Apparently, with both of them together, they were as soft and malleable as warm butter.

“You get it, don’t you?” Alvin told it, still grinning smugly. “I own you. And this one,” he waved the hilt of the sword, “will stay like this until you return to your room.” At that, the dragon by his side relaxed and lounged as much as it could, being tightly bound as it was, so he pressed the point of the sword into its shoulder until it twitched and shied in discomfort.

With a huff, his unruly beast awkwardly clambered up next to the figurehead, using it for support, to do its business into the water. When it was done it returned to the hatch and offered a short growl at Alvin, which earned a bit more weight on the sword, and then disappeared down below deck. Savage followed it down, and after a few moments where the only sounds were the wind in the sails and the water rushing past the hull, he lifted the sword away and lay it by its sheathe. The dragon beside him relaxed with a sigh, though its shoulder twitched irritably.

So it had been worried. That was a good start, but it was not submission; if he wanted a blade in its shoulder, it should present it for him to strike. He stroked his moustache with his thumb while he thought. If he could not punish it for disobeying, he would just need to find another way…

* * *

Dreamer yawned, though it was highly unsatisfying with the muzzle preventing his mouth opening more than enough to squeeze in a small fish, and wearily dropped down from the table after Savage undid the shackle.

He was tired and hungry, his tail fins were cramping, and he’d just been woken from what light sleep he was able to get in this accursed situation. _Whatever the master wants,_ he thought wryly, looking forward to proverbially slapping him in the face with his tail and flying away.

When Savage worked on Wanderer’s shackle too, Dreamer allowed a mote of hope to blossom, and trotted out to the ladder to climb up onto the deck. He emerged into a calm, partially overcast afternoon, the wind firm but not all that strong, and for some reason the sail was tied up. He sighed, again resigned to waiting on his original plan.

He then couldn’t restrain a growl as Savage pulled Wanderer, still bound tightly, up by his muzzle; that had to be painful.

_“No, quiet,”_ Alvin ordered from behind him, and Dreamer clenched his teeth with a deep breath to try to calm himself before turning.

The blistered man was sat in front of a crate, the Maces and Talons board set up on it. Dreamer approached slowly and sat down in front of it, finding all the pieces in the starting positions. Ah, so this would be why the boat was left to drift, so that they could have a game unhindered by pieces falling over.

_“Play to win,”_ Alvin ordered, making the first move while Wanderer was dragged over and dropped to the ground off to the side. Savage stood next to him to watch the game with interest.

Dreamer wanted to grin, but kept an impassive mask over his face. He had been taught the game from a young age, like every potential Chief, and was unmatched on Berk, evenly matched with Stoick from about the age of twelve. By fourteen, he was indisputably the best in the village, though actually finding anyone willing to play was almost impossible. Johann, mostly, and the occasional foreigner.

He didn’t know how good Alvin was at it, the game was supposedly designed to test and nurture leadership skills, and while Alvin was certainly a leader it was clear he was of a different kind. Dreamer made the standard response to the opening, awkwardly fumbling with the piece and watching for a reaction; as much of the game was on the board as off it.

The game progressed relatively quickly through the early stages, suggesting he at least had a familiarity with it, but then Alvin slipped up a bit, allowing Dreamer to capture a longship. Dreamer removed the piece from the board, setting it aside, then moved one of his warriors onto the beach tile it had occupied. A sacrifice, but that was another of the lessons; given an equal playing field, forces, and opponent, he would need to expect to lose pieces. It was just part of battle.

Really, it was better to just avoid the battle in the first place, or come better prepared.

Alvin moved his piece forward, capturing the warrior, which was firmly placed on the side of the board-

A pained yelp caught Dreamer off-guard, snapping his gaze up to see Savage lifting his boot from Wanderer’s back, which he’d clearly just stomped on. Dreamer growled at Savage, then turned it on Alvin.

_“Quiet, play,”_ Alvin commanded with a vindictive grin and a gesture at the board.

So, that was how it was. Alvin had not punished them for taking a piece, but for losing one, that had been clear by the emphasis on the taken piece. He wanted Dreamer to win without losing anything…

That would likely be impossible. Dreamer was certain he could win, but how many pieces he lost in the process would depend on Alvin, and even Snotlout was usually able to take a few. It wasn’t looking good.

He thought quickly, eyes flicking over the board. If that had been the punishment for a single warrior, what would be the price of losing a Longboat? Or his Valkyrie? The sound of the Nadder’s wing snapping echoed in his head. That wasn’t a risk he could take.

But what would be the punishment for _losing?_

Dreamer took the opportunity to strengthen his right-side defences, which he had planned on anyway, to give himself more time to think. Alvin was greedy, he wouldn’t permanently damage either Nighstriker, and as a last resort nothing was permanent anyway; just _really_ inconvenient. He concluded that losing would not carry any hefty price, not when such harsh conditions had been imposed.

But he _had_ been told to play to win, so he couldn’t be seen to throw the game. He had to at least try.

Several more moves in, his spirits were taking a heavy beating. He had been offered a few increasingly beneficial trades, but he couldn’t take them, particularly not for a minor advantage when he already had the upper paw. Alvin, however, was proving a competent player, and…

Dreamer surmised his mind was still developing, as he was feeling its limitations now that the game was growing more complex. He remembered plotting out four and five moves in advance, but at the moment all he could manage was two; past that point everything got too fuzzy to keep track of. Impressive, given he was under three years old, but a crippling limitation in his current situation.

Alvin’s traitor was suddenly brought into play and took out two more warriors, earning two more stomps on Wanderer. The first had been unavoidable, the second an oversight while Dreamer was distracted.

And he _was_ distracted, mostly by Wanderer’s suppressed whimpers but even down to not even being able to hold the pieces properly. It was all grating on him in a way that made him frustrated and impatient.

Abruptly, he decided to switch tactics, and took some time to plan. He was playing from a disadvantage, but in two more moves had taken out the traitor, so there would be no more surprise beatings. He breathed a sigh of relief at that.

Next, rather than shore up his defences, he spread them out, an aggressive strategy that opened holes in his defences but in a way that left none of his pieces in danger. Alvin did not hesitate to capitalise, but Dreamer quickly did the same on the other side of the board.

This was a very strange game. No Chief would ever play like this, because it involved baiting out the opponent’s defences, but that left him always one move behind. Two moves, even, because he had to ensure the safety of his pieces in a strange perversion of the way he played when he was younger.

This was a mess. He took Alvin’s Valkyrie, but at the expense of another warrior and another pained yelp. He could _feel_ the impact through the deck, and shot fleeting glances of _apology, regret, sympathy_ , at his friend. The looks he got back were of confusion and pain, of course he didn’t understand what was happening and that made everything even worse.

Dreamer might now have a piece advantage, but not a strategic one; his own Valkyrie was pinned down, and his longboats were too far away to be of any help.

Unless… He stretched his thoughts as far as they would go, trying to see past that second move ahead. Hesitantly, for he was not sure, he played his traitor.

It was a nasty piece, one that replaced one of the opponent’s warriors, a reminder that even your own soldiers could be your enemies. However, despite its special abilities, it was a relatively weak piece, and the sort of plays it was used for always left it deep within enemy territory. It rarely survived the game.

However, the frenzied offense had left most of Dreamer’s powerful pieces in enemy territory, so it wasn’t an instant death. Alvin took a long moment to think before making the predicted move, Dreamer quickly following up.

And this was where things had been hazy… Alvin’s move was unexpected, but ultimately irrelevant. Dreamer completely cornered his Chief, forcing him into action… by cornering and then taking Dreamer’s own Chief.

He held his breath while Alvin inspected the piece, turning it over in his fingers. He gave Dreamer a flat look, then delicately set it on the table.

A single, last kick, and it was over. Dreamer slumped with a groan, weary and broken-spirited. Wanderer was dragged back to the hatch and lowered down, and Dreamer headed down after them. Alvin made no move to stop him.

He followed them inside the room at the back, then curled up around Wanderer, who had been dumped in the middle of the floor. “I sorry,” he whimpered with a nuzzle, then began licking gently at his shoulders and back.

His best friend was silent for a while, but then twisted to bump his head against Dreamer. “Not be sorry. My hurts pain you more than pain me…”

“But you hurt because I…”

Wanderer huffed. “You strong, Dreamer, so strong… If he hurt you like this, I… I not know what I do…”

Dreamer understood; he would have happily taken the beatings in Wanderer’s place and smiled for it. Alvin knew this, that was why Wanderer was suffering, and if he really _did_ want to focus on Wanderer…

But that didn’t bear thinking about. Especially because Dreamer had just realised something.

Savage had locked them in the room without shackling them. He’d earned his sliver of trust.

* * *

It took a full day for that trust to manifest in the inevitable way. This was now the fourth light of the journey, wherever it led, but Dreamer had no intention of seeing the destination. It wasn’t the same place Wanderer had been rescued from, that was a different direction, so their best chance was escaping before then.

And that required a firm breeze, impatience, and Alvin releasing his tail.

Dreamer immediately swung the appendage around and kneaded the numb fins with his paws, then tried to stick them in his mouth and partially succeeded through the muzzle. The contact to release the bonds had been torturous, as expected, but expanding the wide fins in front of his face was indescribably freeing.

Of course, he still couldn’t just fly away. That was what Alvin was counting on, and he certainly wasn’t leaving Wanderer here on his own. He’d explained his plan to his friend, and that it might result in one more punishment. As long as it even had a chance of freeing them, Wanderer was all in.

And so, body shaking with trepidation, he leapt into the air and tentatively revelled in returning to the sky.

Alvin had just told him to fly, not do anything specific, but he was hungry. Might as well make something of it. He banked after a school of fish and dove into them, forgetting that the muzzle prevented him from opening his mouth and leaving his prey to bounce off his face and slip from his blunt claws. How aggravating.

He kicked down into the water, then powered up out of it and caught the air again to glide back to the boat and circle around it.

_“Come,”_ Alvin ordered.

This last part perhaps wasn't totally necessary, but as far as Dreamer could work out it dramatically improved their odds; a lot could go wrong otherwise. Dreamer ignored him. _“Come!”_ Alvin repeated demandingly, but Dreamer just flew higher.

Alvin barked down into the hatch and glared up at him. The moment Wanderer was hauled onto the deck, still muzzled with his paws and wings bound to his body and tail fins tightly wrapped, Dreamer landed and shook himself off. Now neither of them could be trapped in the hold. And hopefully…

No bark of pain sounded from Wanderer, but Alvin immediately stomped up to Dreamer. That wasn’t good. He shied back from the anger in Alvin’s expression, recognising the way he moved and knowing what was coming. The boot that impacted his shoulder knocked him onto his side, but Wanderer had been right; this was far less painful.

Alvin seemed to realise that, and stormed back to Wanderer. This was it, he had to make his move _now_. Wanderer grunted, his understanding and agreement taking the edge off the brief assault in the time it took Dreamer to rise and trot briskly to the back of the ship.

His wing shot out and took the Outcast manning the rudder completely by surprise, striking him in the side of the knee; a limb that could hold a Nightstriker in the air all day needed a ludicrous amount of strength behind it. The man crumpled even as he reached for his weapon.

But nobody got a chance to react more than that. Dreamer set his paws on the rudder and _heaved,_ digging what was left of his rear claws into the irregularities between the boards of the deck to walk it forward.

The boat immediately made a sharp turn, throwing everyone to one side, the downed Outcast almost colliding with Dreamer. The water then found itself rushing at the side of the boat and abruptly arrested its momentum, throwing everyone and everything in the other direction and leaving the boat leaning precariously in the water.

With the advantage of four legs and having braced himself, Dreamer wasted no time bouncing heavily off the injured Outcast’s chest, feeling ribs crack under his paws, over to the second one now leaning against the rail. A wing aimed at his throat struck him in the chest and shoulder, but sent him over the edge and into the water. Two down.

He leapt at Savage, headbutting him in the groin and striking his knee with a paw to bring him down, then a wing struck him in the temple. His eyes rolled back as he fell.

And that left Alvin, just getting to his feet as the boat righted itself. Dreamer snarled at him, unleashing all the anger that had been building up over the last few days, and bounded forward.

Alvin found his footing quickly and lunged for his sword, but Dreamer managed to grapple his leg and bring him to the ground. The sword suddenly whizzed over his head, almost taking off his ears, and Alvin was scrambling to his feet a moment later.

Dreamer dodged forward under the sword, stopping next to Alvin and bracing himself to lash out with his tail – it collided with a sickening, splintering crack, not just breaking the ankle, but _shattering_ it. The vile Long-Paw didn’t even have time to scream, Dreamer driving a wing up and back to keep Alvin off-balance and then spinning to headbutt him over the edge of the boat.

And just like that, it was over. He let out a roar, aggravated he couldn’t open his mouth far enough, then took only a moment to catch his breath before padding over to Wanderer.

He wasn’t sure he had ever seen his friend so happy. However, once the ropes were eventually unknotted and undone – a painstakingly slow process -- enough for Wanderer to stretch out his wings and legs, and the binding on his tail delicately and painstakingly chewed off, they did not hang around to congratulate each other.

Dreamer leapt back into the air after his friend, shouting their freedom. Even the muzzle did little to temper his joy, though it prevented his hinged mouth from opening and therefore restricted his throat and the volume he could muster.

However, they had barely even started looping and flipping around each other before Wanderer started to flag, and Dreamer was feeling it too. They were tired, hungry, and very weak, desperately needing food and rest.

And eating… would be a problem, Dreamer realised. He barked at Wanderer and levelled off, drifting into a swift and efficient glide, leaving the boat adrift behind them. Before long they found a tall sea stack to rest on, where Dreamer worked off the rest of the ropes off Wanderer. It took so long to work the fiddly little knots, even with Wanderer clawing through one of them, that by the time they were done Wanderer was rested enough to try to catch some fish; they needed his claws, as neither could use their mouths.

Dreamer purred thanks as a fish was dropped in front of him, and awkwardly worked it between the bars of his muzzle. That would be enough until they could get the muzzles off, but for that they needed help. If he still had his claws he might have been able to pick the lock on Wanderer’s at least…

He shook his head and drifted into a doze, letting the fish revitalise him. They leaned into each other, but there was no overjoyed bonding, no cuddling or grooming or purring. They didn’t feel free, wouldn’t until the stifling muzzles were removed.

They woke to the sky-fire quenching in the water and took off again, flying into the encroaching darkness; the cool, safe, concealing darkness. They did not speak, just flew straight and efficiently.

So it was strangely a surprise when Berk started looming on the horizon. Dreamer hadn’t really thought about where he was going, and it seemed Wanderer was following him, watching him with piercing and unreadable eyes.

Dreamer shook his head, grimacing at the weight and persistent clicking of the padlock, and flapped for a bit more speed. First, he would-…

He would what? As they entered Berk's waters, he glanced at the lights of the village and suddenly stalled in the air. His tired wings protested at hovering, but he couldn’t bring himself to get any closer.

But Berk wasn’t… wouldn’t…

But Berk _had._

His thoughts seized. His chest was a tumultuous storm of rage, grief, and longing. He felt he was being ripped in half between an urge to return home and another to flee danger.

He didn't know what to do.


End file.
